The Last Elf-Queen of Arda
by TheGreenScholar
Summary: We all know the story of Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood. But what about his mother and father, the King and Queen of the Greenwood? This story follows Thranduil as a youth, how he met the elf woman who would become his queen, and everything that followed. Features characters such as Oropher, Gil-Galad, Elrond, Galion, baby Legolas and a host of OCs. Reviews are preciousssss...
1. Chapter 1 - Oropher's War Council

**Mae go'vannen to you all! By popular request, we leave behind 'Starting Anew' (the story of how Legolas met Aragorn after the events of The Hobbit) to now look behind into the past. This story focuses on a young Thranduil, how he met the elf woman who would become his queen, and eventually the birth of Legolas. I hope you enjoy it at least half as much as you all seemed to love 'Starting Anew'! :-) **

Lifting the flap of the tent, Thranduil looked out across the encampment and smiled to himself. Thirty thousand was the final count of their armed host, Sindarin and Silvan elves alike. They had all but emptied their capital at Amon Lanc in the southern Greenwood of able warriors. His father Oropher had been king of the combined peoples of that realm for little more than two and a half thousand years. Already he commanded such loyalty from his subjects though that they could easily have brought even greater numbers. This was, after all, to be one of the greatest battles of the Second Age.

The combined armies of Oropher, King of the Greenwood and Amdír, King of Lórien covered the plains in a swath of silver and green. Both forces had much in common, despite being from different kingdoms. Although predominantly composed of Silvan elves, they were content to follow the leadership of Sindarin kings. The two armies were also bound for the same doom upon the morn; to join forces with the hosts of High King Gil-Galad and of Elendil, High King of the Dúnedain. Such a united host had not been seen in Middle-Earth for thousands of years, nor would likely be seen again. These armies had come together under a single banner though; The Last Alliance of Elves and Men. Tomorrow, they would meet the creatures of Sauron on the open plain before the Morannon, or the 'Black Gate' in the Common Tongue.

Surveying the Greenwood army proudly, Thranduil thought that any orc would be addled out of its wits to stand against such a force. Oropher's warriors were all the very finest of the realm, each one trained to utter perfection at the crafts of blade and bow. The prince had seen the elf-knights who counted themselves among High King Gil-Galad's army the day before. It was all very well and good, he had thought, that they were so finely equipped with shining helms and long silver spears. To Thranduil's mind though the warriors of the Greenwood were the ones he would far rather fight beside. They may fight clad in leather armor instead of polished breastplates, armed with short bows and swords of ore rather than pure steel. However, Thranduil had trained beside these elves both Silvan and Sindarin alike, and could not imagine warriors with more heart in all of Arda.

Letting the tent flap fall back into place Thranduil turned once again to watch the debate unfolding inside. Standing across from one another at a long table laden with maps and small figurines, the two Sindarin kings spoke in increasingly tense words.

"I did not march the length of the Misty Mountains to hand over command of my forces to Gil-Galad." Oropher was saying, both palms laid flat on the table before him. "He has our allegiance and pledge of fealty in battle, is that not enough for him?" The King of the Greenwood cut an imposing figure, tall and crowned with a circlet of silver upon his long golden hair. Thranduil had always known his father to be a proud but kind person though. He paid no mind at the dangerous glint in the king's eye as he stood slightly to one side with his arms folded over his wine red tunic.

Amdír, king of the elves of Lórien gestured impatiently to the tent wall, more so to what lay beyond on the other side of the hill outside. The army of High King Gil-Galad was encamped not far away, and one had only to walk a few paces beyond the boundaries of the watch to sight a multitude of blue and gold banners.

"The High King is not asking for us to surrender our command entirely, Oropher. Did you not expect as much when we took up the call to war?"

His long fingers pressing into the tabletop fit to turn his knuckles white, the king of the Greenwood glowered. "What I expect is for the king of the Noldor to command Noldorin elves, and leave the command of Sindarin and Silvan to us. Come now, mellon-nin. Are you truly saying that you are willing to leave the fate of your people in the hands of the son of Orodreth?"

Prince Thranduil listened intently, watching as the silvery-haired Amdír raised an eyebrow.

"You have some quarrel with the house of Orodreth?"

Oropher came dangerously close to smirking. "Orodreth was a fool. Were it not for him and his willingness to listen to the council of mortals, the city of Nargothrond might have been held. I am not inclined to trust his son any better."

Seeing that any opposition was unlikely to get anywhere with the stubborn lord of the Greenwood, Amdír picked up the blue painted figurine of Gil-Galad off the map between then.

"I like it not, but then why should our forces fight any less well for being commanded by those who know them best? Very well Oropher, if your course is set then I am with you. Although I pray that you at least will keep me informed of your movements in battle, so that I might fight at your side."

"Gladly, old friend." Coming around the table, Thranduil's father clasped wrists with the other Sindarin king. "Leave Gil-Galad to me. He will have more than enough to concern himself with on the morn regardless."

"Won't we all?" Amdír smiled grimly. Turning, he nodded at the young prince of the Greenwood in passing before stepping smoothly out of the tent.

Thranduil watched as his father's shoulders relaxed and he massaged his temples. Looking up, the corner of Oropher's mouth quirked at his son.

"Well then Thranduil, what think you of all this? Come now and give me your opinion." Oropher waved him over as a servant stepped forward from the recesses of the tent with a goblet of rich white wine for the king. "Come, tell me your thoughts on the matter. Someday you perhaps shall be king, but Valar permitting I pray you do not find yourself faced with days like this in which to rule."

Approaching his father, Thranduil considered the conversation he had just witnessed before speaking. The servant offered him a glass of wine as well, but he refused. He preferred red vintages to white anyways.

"Has the High King much experience with leading armies, Adar?"

Taking a long sip of his wine, Oropher set the goblet down on a small wooden table at hand with a ringing 'clink'. In even movements so small as this, the elven king was graceful. Thranduil had seen that grace put to terrible and deadly effect in battle many times, and knew better than most that his father's elegance was just as much born of battle than beauty.

"Gil-Galad has reigned as king of the Noldor for more than three thousand years now, and seen his fair share of combat in that time." Oropher spoke in a voice both deep and mellow. "He has led forces into skirmishes, and done much political maneuvering as well. There are some that would say he is more than competent to lead the joint forces of our people against Sauron."

Thranduil frowned slightly, his youthful face furrowed as he considered this. "But you do not trust him?"

Oropher let out a huff of air that might have been an ill-concealed chuckle. Looking fondly at his son, sipped his wine.

"No, ion-nin, I do not. Do you recall much of our life in Lindon, before we came to live in the Greenwood?"

Thranduil shook his head. "I fear I do not. I remember something of the journey, and our first meeting with the Silvan elves."

Now Oropher did chuckle, low and rich in the back of his throat. "No, you would not have much if any memory of those days, so young an elfling you were. Suffice it to say that I removed our people from our lives in Lindon because of Gil-Galad."

Perplexed, the young prince tilted his head enquiringly. "Adar?"

"As king of the Noldor, Gil-Galad has always seemed to me first and foremost concerned with the business of Noldo elves. If we had remained in Lindon within his domain, I believe we Sindarin elves would not have fared near so well as we have among the Silvan folk of the Greenwood. I do not wish to see our warriors forgotten, lost amongst the ranks of Noldorin knights whom Gil-Galad cherishes and will no doubt see best ordered."

Thranduil nodded. He too did not like the sound of being forgotten, potentially ignored by a Noldor High King with little interest in a young Sindarin prince. With conviction now, he answered his father.

"Then in that case I think it best that you lead our forces, Adar. And that Amdír lead the elves of Lórien at our side. Besides, I doubt that King Gil-Galad even knows or best understands how we Greenwood elves do battle!"

The last piece Thranduil said with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than he had meant, but Oropher just shook his head and gazed appreciatively at his son.

"Ah my sapling, you shall no doubt make a fine warrior in your prime." The king said, calling Thranduil by his childhood nickname. It was derived from the meaning of the prince's name in the Common tongue; 'tall beech-tree'. Chuckling, the king patted the hilt of his own longsword, which sat propped at his side against the chair in which he sat. "Already you take pride in the fighting prowess of your people. That is good. Never forget to be proud of what you are, and you shall never falter ion-nin."

Pleased, Thranduil grinned and bowed his head. "I shall always be proud to be your son, Adar. This time tomorrow, we shall celebrate the prowess of the warriors of the Greenwood after we break the ranks of Sauron's forces. I can feel it; we shall have victory against the spawn of the enemy!"

Oropher was laughing aloud now, and with a flourish he waved his hand in dismissal. "Off with you then, O mighty sapling. Rest yourself, for on the morrow you will need all your strength to help Amdír and I secure this victory of which you speak."

A spring in his step, Thranduil practically danced as he departed from the king's tent. As soon as his son was gone though, Oropher immediately sobered and picked up his goblet of wine once again. Thranduil was young, a mere two and a half thousand years old, and had not yet truly seen battle in his life. Yes, the prince had often skirmished with goblins and the other occasional interloper they came across on the borders of the Greenwood. The horror of war was something entirely different though, and Oropher wished to Eru that he was not about to expose his child to such things.

The king of the Greenwood did not rest that night, but stood as a silent sentry watching over the encampment from the mouth of his tent. He could see the plains stretching away into the darkness before them, beyond which lay even now the black, evil iron of the gates of Morannon. Oropher had brought his warriors here, all thirty thousand ready and willing to lay down their immortal lives for this mad dream of peace. He dearly hoped that Thranduil's grand predictions of victory came to fruition.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Bluest of Blood

**And now we come to it; the Battle of the Last Alliance. Be warned, things will get a bit violent in this chapter. As we've seen in 'Starting Anew' and now here, Legolas clearly gets his habit of being distracted at potentially dangerous times from his father...**

Whether the sun truly rose that morning or not, it seemed the gray wastes of the plains of Daglorlad looked just as gloomy as they had the night before. The armies of elves and men were on the move well before daybreak though, even without a sunrise to greet them. Elendil could be seen from a distance as he rode up the hill at Gil-Galad's side. The mortal king and the High King of the Noldor led their forces out onto the cusp of the plains, arraying themselves in a broad swath of shining armor and fluttering banners of blue and gold. Oropher came after at the head of the Greenwood elves, with Amdír and the forces of Lórien not far behind. Placing themselves to the left of Gil-Galad's columns, the Silvan kings eyed the forces of Men where they stood to the right of the Noldor. They perhaps liked it less than some that the High King of the elves should be so clearly favorable toward mortals.

Trying to look relaxed, Thranduil stood straight as an arrow at his father's elbow. The king was arrayed in his finest armor, and for the first time so was the prince. Never before had Thranduil ever worn the moulded breastplate, greaves and fauld made to fit him. A child of the forest, he was far more used to dancing along the arms of trees clad in light leather armor of perhaps even just a tunic. He was proud to be armored after the fashion of his father though, and that went far in settling the writhing of his stomach. The heads of elves and men seemed to go on forever in both directions._ What army in all of Arda could possibly challenge such a force?_ He wondered to himself.

The answer came spilling like a dark stain over the horizon soon enough. The black gates of the Morannon were flung wide, and through them issued forth legion after legion after legion. Orcs, trolls, goblins, all manner of foul creatures had come to heed the summons of their dark master Sauron. When all thought that the lands of Mordor could not possibly contain another orc, yet another mass of them would come roiling out onto the plains.

Watching the approach of the armies of evil through slitted eyes, Oropher glanced sideways to where Gil-Galad stood at the head of his forces. The Noldorin king was composed, his great spear Aeglos standing nearly nine feet tall above the heads of all around. Oropher could not read what was in Gil-Galad's mind; the sides of his helm blocked his face from view. As it sensing eyes upon him, Gil-Galad turned and called across to Elendil at the head of the armies of Men.

"Bring the spear-bearers into the front line. Let the spawn of darkness run themselves through with the weight of their charge."

Oropher saw Elendil nod, then signal to his swordsmen to fall back and give way to the spearmen. The armies of Noldor and Men alike exchanged their ranks with swift efficiency, bringing the long spears and shields of their bearers come forward to create a bristling wall. The king of the Greenwood could have spit, if elves ever lowered themselves to such human displays of disgust. Did Gil-Galad intend for them to slink in behind the forces of the Noldo and, Eru forbid, of _mortals_ to take shelter? Surely he must realize that they counted no spear-bearers within their ranks. The elves of Lórien and of the Greenwood did their battle either by bow or by blade; there was no in-between for them.

Sauron's army was drawing closer at an alarming pace, covering the distance from the Morannon across the plains with blood-thirsty speed. It would not be long before they crashed upon them like a thunderclap. One quick look at Amdír confirmed that the other Silvan king was just as disgruntled at the thought of having to fall back behind Gil-Galad and Elendil's ranks.

_Very well then._ Oropher thought. _If Gil-Galad will fight this battle in his own style, then we shall do the same._ Jerking his head in the direction of the approaching orcs, he indicated his intentions to Amdír.

"Adar?" Thranduil had seen Oropher's signal to Amdír, and wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles paled within their gloves. The young prince was doing an admirable job of keeping his expression calm, but his blue eyes revealed the depths of Thranduil's anxiety as he looked to his father.

Speaking in a low voice just for the two of them, Oropher smiled slightly at his son. "Stay close to me, Thranduil. Mind your back, and keep your head clear." Reaching for his own hand-and-a-half sword, Oropher drew the blade and lifted it overhead.

"Gurth enin goth!"* He cried, his voice lifting above the growing chaos of the orcs. A few seconds later, slightly less enthusiastically, Amdír echoed the battle cry to his own troops. The pair of elf kings led their armies into a charge, breaking away and leaving the other two armies behind.

**OoOoOoOoOoOo**

"DAMN THAT OROPHER!"

Both rage and horror whirled like twin hurricanes behind High King Gil-Galad's eyes as he watched the Lord of the Greenwood lead his troops in an early charge across the battlefield. Beside him, the human king Elendil could only join in his helplessness. The Battle of the Last Alliance was supposed to be a united effort, a last stand in which all men and elves came under the command of one banner. Which followed to reason that King Oropher was to have submitted himself and his warriors to the leadership of Gil-Galad! Clearly though, the half-wild Sindarin king of that even wilder forest had no such intentions of following another.

"My lord! Will you give us the order to attack?!"

The question came from Gil-Galad's right, and he looked to his standard bearer. Elrond was still young by elvish standards, but an upbringing under the sons of Feanor had given him a keen mind for battle. His wide brown eyes clearly mirrored his own shock at the early charge.

"What choice do we have?" Griping his glave furiously, Gil-Galad shouted to their archers. "Hado!" ** They would have to take their opportunity now, before that fool Oropher and his elves got too close to the enemy and blocked the shot. "For the free peoples!" He cried, and Elendil mirrored his call in the Westron tongue to the army of men at their side. Rushing down from the barren bluff on which they stood, they were still well behind even the slowest of the eager Silvan/Sindarin army from the north. Having kept to themselves since time unmeasured in the forest, the Silvan members of that force were clearly eager to test themselves in battle. As for the Sindarin minority which Oropher himself had brought to the Greenwood, they should have known better. That was to say nothing of Amdír and the elves of Lórien. No doubt the silver-haired monarch had been overrun by Oropher's stronger personality. Gil-Galad could curse Oropher all he wanted though; it wouldn't save his brash neck.

Sure enough, the armies of Mordor were eager for blood, and the two forces met like a thunder-clap before Gil-Galad, Elendil and the rest of the army could catch them. By the time they reached the same ground, it was already wet with blood both red and black.

Whatever Thranduil had been expecting of battle, it absolutely paled in comparison to the chaos of the real thing. Elves by nature were graceful and deadly warriors, but this in part depended on having the space to execute their skillful manoeuvres. There were so many orcs and other creatures on the battlefield that there was scarcely room to turn on the spot! The sheer numbers of the enemy made the fight difficult, and more than a small number of Silvan elves died for lack of fighting room or thick armor.

Skewering an orc on his sword and drawing it back with a spray of dark blood, Thranduil did his best to stay in the vicinity of his father. Oropher was a force of nature in battle, and around the Greenwood king there could at least be found a small pocket of breathing room. Amdír was hardly to be seen, but for occasional glimpses of his silver hair through the fray. For the most part Thranduil was so pressed just to keep the orcs at arm's length that he didn't even have time to remember his fear. It was the worst anarchy he had ever experienced in all his two and a half thousand years.

A keening cry rent the air, causing Thranduil to turn instinctively to find its source. He never found out who had made that dreadful sound though. The moment of distraction proved incredibly costly, as it exposed him to an orc pike-man with the build of a small troll. The brute was taller and more powerful than many of its kind; enough so that its momentum combined with a direct strike drove the tip of its pike through Thranduil's armor and into his right shoulder.

The orc kept its hold on the shaft of the short spear, continuing to bear forward. Caught off guard, Thranduil was pushed straight off his feet to land on his back. Pain bloomed like a fiery red flower all through his shoulder and across his chest. His sword, lying several feet away and underfoot of the other combatants was all but lost to him. Writhing like a worm skewered on a hook, Thranduil tried to grasp the pike and perhaps dislodge it.

A dark sharp loomed overhead though, blotting out the greyness of the sky. It's horrible features contorted in something approximating a leer, the gigantic orc grabbed hold of the pike once again and withdrew it. The burning agony and the scant relief that brought were swiftly followed by horror when the creature lifted the spear overhead and brought it down straight toward Thranduil's chest. The elven-made breastplate saved his life though; instead of piercing him through the heart where the orc had intended, the spear instead glanced off to strike the prince in the armpit. The blow drove all the breath from his lungs, and the world exploded into little black dots before Thranduil's eyes.

Frustrated and wishing to move onto the next person to kill, the orc pike-man grabbed the spear and made to lean on it. The vicious pressure felt like death itself was sitting on his chest, and Thranduil knew beyond certainty that the spear's tip would pierce his lung if it went any further. Scrabbling for a grip on the shaft of the pike to try and halt its movement, he summoned what little breath he had left to him and cried out;

"Adar!"

If there is any sound in the world that a parent can recognize even in the midst of the worst chaos, it is the scream of their child. Turning away from the skirmish that he had been engaged in, Oropher flung himself in the direction of Thranduil's cry. The entire battle seemed to shrink down to only the orc that even now was bent on killing his son. There was nothing graceful about how Oropher tackled the giant orc, sending the creature and himself rolling away locked in a vicious death-match.

All that Thranduil could see from flat on his back was the sudden streak of golden hair, and then the orc was gone. As good as pinned down by the spear lodged in the crook of his arm, the prince of the Greenwood found himself helpless to rise. Every breath was a struggle, and he thought he tasted blood in the back of his throat. Thranduil tried in vain to see his father, or even just to remain conscious. Slowly though the black shadows at the edges of his vision grew to envelope all.

**OoOoOoOoOoOo**

*Death to the enemy!  
**Shoot!


	3. Chapter 3 - Tears of the Sun

**One thing about writing book-canon events/characters; it requires way more research than I had thought! In this chapter we meet our title lady, and I do hope you like her. I have loosely based Thranduil's future queen off of the Facebook role-play page personification created by '****Anthelísse Eldalótë -Queen of Mirkwood**'.

Consciousness came slowly, teasing at Thranduil like a reticent lover as it remained just beyond reach. Awareness of his body remained elusive even as his mind gradually came back into focus. For a fleeting moment he thought he beheld the sun, come to visit him in a fair form even as he lay there. He couldn't be sure if he actually saw with his own eyes or in his mind though, and eventually Thranduil was lost again to dreams.

"Will he live, hiril-nin*?"

Frowning, Anthelísse turned away from the bedside of the stricken prince. It had been two days since the battle before the Morannon, and still her charge did not awaken. Brushing back a long strand of golden hair that had escaped its bindings, she shook her head.

"I cannot say. He is lucky to be alive now; had the spear tip gone even a finger's width further and likely he would have drowned in his own blood."

The Sindarin elf before her looked crestfallen, his gaze still fixed intently on Thranduil where he lay. The prince of the Greenwood had been under her care since the Lord Elrond had brought him to the healers after the battle. In the time since Anthelísse had been using all her considerable skill at medicine to restore Thranduil to his people. If it had been the blood loss, he surely would have awoken by now. Thus far there had been no signs of festering in the wounds, and so she just could not say when or if he would recover. Anthelísse suspected it was more than likely the sheer shock of battle that Thranduil's mind rather than body was attempting to recover from.

Such a vague answer would hardly satisfy the Captain of the Woodland Guard. A tall and sharp featured elf, Gurithon had scarcely left his prince's side in the past forty-eight hours.

The armies of the Last Alliance still remained encamped on the plains outside Mordor, and there they would remain until such time as the most grievously wounded could be moved. There was also the grim task of burying the dead to attend to before such time as they could return to their homelands. The count of the fallen was steep indeed for all involved, but especially so for the armies of the Greenwood and Lórien. Of the original thirty thousand troops whom Oropher had led in that ill-fated first charge, only a scant third remained. These survivors sat in groups around empty fires or wandered their camp hollow-eyed, as if still in shock that they should remain when so many comrades and kin had been killed. Most had moved their tents closer to the central encampment of Gil-Galad's army though, as if by proximity they could better await any scrap of news regarding Thranduil's death or survival.

With a sigh, Gurithon leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. Anthelísse pitied the poor Sindarin captain; much had been left to him in the absence of other leadership. It was just as bad in the camp of the elves of Lórien, now bereft of their king. Only just that morning Amdír, the Lord of the Golden Wood had been laid to rest with full honors alongside his fallen warriors.

Lifting the bowl of bloodied water and soiled cloths she had been using to cleanse Thranduil's wound, Anthelísse left Gurithon at the prince's side. There were many, many others to attend to in the tent of the healers. Everywhere there was a deep aura of sadness. All were grieving, be they Noldorin, Sindarin, Silvan or mortal alike. High King Gil-Galad had fallen to the hand of Sauron himself in battle, as had the human king Elendil. The thought of Gil-Galad brought a lump to Anthelísse's throat and a stinging to her clear blue eyes. Hastily rubbing her cheek with the back of a hand, the elf lady made her way from bed to bed tending her patients. There would be time enough to mourn later...for now the wounded needed her care.

"Lady Anthelísse!" A call rose urgently from the front of the tent. Hastening back to where Gurithon was now standing at Thranduil's bedside, Anthelísse was met by a low moan.

Gurithon was tense with anticipation. "He stirs, see there?!" Sure enough, the Sindarin prince was beginning to move, his brow knitting together in a pained expression.

"I see. Here..." Laying a hand across Thranduil's brow, she nodded in approval. "I feel no fever." Now focused on the fair young face before her, Anthelísse called out soft and low.

"Thranduil...Oropherion...Can you hear us?"

"Come back to us my lord." Gurithon spoke earnestly, snatching up Thranduil's hand from where it lay pale on the bed-sheet. "Your people need you now."

Vaguely, as though through a dense fog, Thranduil became aware of his name being called. The sun seemed to shine right through his eyelids, and he knew there was no longer any refuge to be found in sleep. There was a sense of warmth in his fingers; perhaps someone was holding his hand? Not without great effort, Thranduil slowly peeled open his eyes.

The first thing he saw was that the sun was not actually the sun, but an elf lady. Her golden hair was untidily escaping from its bindings, but still shone like beaten gold all the same. The beautiful elf straightened, and Thranduil became aware of the presence of Gurithon, his father's Captain of the Guard.

"He awakens!" Thranduil thought he had never in all his life heard the usually unflappable Gurithon sound so excited or relieved. "Thranduil, hir-nin, can you speak?"

"Wh..." His mouth felt as dry as sawdust, and the words would not come freely. "Wha..."

"The battle is won, my lord." Gurithon's smile looked somehow thin. "The forces of Sauron are spent and the villain himself has fallen, to the son of Elendil no less!"

The elf woman came round the bed, and Thranduil felt her slip a surprisingly firm arm beneath his shoulders. Another pillow was propped beneath his head, and he found himself able to look Gurithon in the eye without straining.

"Do not speak if it causes you pain, Lord Thranduil." She said, stepping back and looking him over. "Your wounds may hamper moving overmuch, even for so small a thing as to talk."

There was one thing that Thranduil knew he must ask though, even if it cost him all the pain in the world. Looking back to Gurithon, he had to swallow several times before he could speak and be understood.

"M...My father...?"

The Captain of the Guard paled, and cast his eyes downward. The blue cloth of the tent walls cast an unnatural pallor over the elf's cheek.

"Aran-nin..."**

For a moment Thranduil waited, thinking that Gurithon was speaking of Oropher. Then an icy chill traveled down his spine when he realized that Gurithon was addressing him directly.

"No. No! It's...it's not possible." His voice came out in a strangled sounding choke.

Gurithon spoke in a low voice, looking up with eyes swimming with tears. "Your father was one of the finest warriors I've ever had the privilege to meet or to serve, my lord Thranduil. He was not invincible though."

Listening to the weeping of the young king made Anthelísse's heart ache even as she turned away to give the two Greenwood elves privacy. She had many tears of her own yet unshed, and too many things to do yet before she would have the time to shed them.

Almost unwillingly Anthelísse felt her gaze travel beyond the entrance of the tent to the plains beyond. Tonight there would be another royal burial; that of King Oropher himself. As for the late King Elendil, his son Isildur had declared his intent to bear his father's body back to Amon Anwar, the great mountain in the heart of Gondor.

For the High King Gil-Galad though there could be no burial site, no final resting place to lay his body. The great lord of the Noldor had perished by the fiery hand of Sauron, and of him no trace had remained. Instead a marker would be erected on the plains where Gil-Galad and so many others had perished, commemorating this last brave alliance of men and elves.

"Namárië, toron.***." Anthelísse whispered, letting the air carry her words away. Since the death of their sister Finduilas following the sack of Nargothrond it had just been the two of them, the children of Orodreth. Now only she, the youngest remained. Many of their people had already returned to the Blessed Realm of Valinor after being pardoned by the Valar. With this final battle, so few of the Noldor now dwelt in Middle-Earth that without a doubt any still left would soon depart from the Havens. The days of the High Kingship of the Noldor were over in Arda.

_I suppose I shall depart with them_. Anthelísse could not think of any reason why she would remain on these shores now. The war was over, Middle-Earth could now perhaps for a time be left in peace. With her parents and now both her elder brother and sister having passed beyond this land, Anthelísse was the last of the royal line of the Noldor to remain. She supposed that meant the leadership of their people now fell to her, for however long a time lay between now and the day when they would take ship from the harbours.

For now though, there was still work to be done. With a sigh Gil-Galad's sister returned to the bedsides of the wounded. The Blessed Realm was not going anywhere, and for the time being neither was she.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

*Hiril-nin = My lady (Sindarin)

**Aran-nin = My king (Sindarin)

*** Namárië, toron. = Farwell, brother. (Quenyan)


	4. Chapter 4 - Fight From the Front

**A new day, a new chapter! There has been some surprise/consternation that ****Anthelísse, Thranduil's future wife and Legolas's mother is in fact Gil-Galad's younger sister, and therefore a Noldor elf. Yes, this would as a result make Legolas half-Noldor, half-Sindarin. Personally I think it's an interesting twist. Plus it's entirely plausible given that we know pretty much a grand total of nothing about the queen from Tolkien, and even Legolas's racial background is never ****explicitly ****spelled out. **

As evening approached, Thranduil grew more and more restless lying in the tent of the healers. Gurithon had quietly informed him earlier that they would be laying Oropher to rest at the head of the other fallen warriors of the Greenwood. Wounded he may be, but _damned_ if Thranduil was going to be absent for his father's funeral.

Hi desire to be seen and to give his remaining people a leader only intensified when he overheard a whispered conversation through the wall of the tent next to his bed. Clearly the speakers did not realize they were being eavesdropped on, but even Thranduil's limited knowledge of the Noldorin tongue Quenya told him more than he wanted to hear.

"They say that, were it not for his order, Amdír would never have led the Lórien elves into that early charge."

"Ai, it was poorly done. Oropher was a fool if you ask me. Either that or mad; otherwise what else could have possessed him to charge the ranks of Mordor without our forces, or those of Elendil?"

"I agree; fool at the least and mad at the worst. It's a wonder that the Greenwood folk still living haven't gathered together and left already. Were I them, I wouldn't care to be ruled by the house of Oropher in the future."

Thranduil's fists gripped the blanket until his knuckles hurt. His chest felt unbearably tight in a way that had nothing to do with either the thick bandages or the wounds beneath them.

_Never forget to be proud of what you are, and you shall never falter ion-nin._

He could hear his father's voice as clearly as if Oropher were standing right beside his bed. _I shall always be proud to be your son, Adar_. Thranduil wanted to believe those words, and clung to them with all the strength his aching heart still had. The words of the elves standing outside burned like hot irons to his ears though.

"Be still, both of you!"

A sharp, female voice interrupted the conversation on the other side of the tent wall like a dash of icy water.

"My lady!"

"We beg your pardon, Lady Anthelísse. We did not mean..."

The lady spoke again, curt and angry. "You knew what you meant, even if you did not know or care who might hear. Those who died upon yonder field sacrificed much, and do not deserve mockery from the likes of you. I suggest you both find something useful to do with your hands; I grow tired of your idle tongues."

"Yes my lady, of course."

"As you wish, my lady."

Thranduil listened to the entire exchange intently, never minding even when his sudden intake of breath sent pain racing across his chest. By turning his head slightly, he was able to catch sight of a silhouette cast against the tent from the outside. The figure stood for a moment, then turned and circled round toward the entrance. To his surprise, Thranduil recognized the golden-haired healer who had tended him earlier as she stepped back inside away from the grey wastes of the plains.

Noticing the wounded king watching her, Anthelísse sighed and made a gesture toward where she had been standing moment before.

"You heard, Lord Thranduil?"

Sadly Thranduil nodded. "Yes...I heard."

"I am sorry, truly I am. Soldiers do not think sometimes before they speak." Anthelísse silently cursed the two members of her brother's army. Her army, she corrected herself. The remaining Noldor in Middle-Earth were her people now, and by the Valar she would see to it that those two were demoted for their thoughtless words. The misery and grief in the Sindarin elf's eyes before her sapped whatever leniency she might otherwise have been inclined to grant toward such behavior.

"They speak what is on their minds." Thranduil turned his head away, as if ashamed. Gazing upon the rows and rows of wounded in the tent beyond, he felt sick in the pit of his stomach. Gurithon had ever so briefly informed him of the extent of the losses their people had suffered in battle. Twenty-thousand warriors killed, and likely because his own father had called that fatal early charge. How could he ever face his people?

Anthelísse heard a soft 'ahem' behind her, and turned to look who it was. Clad in a dark blue tunic, his long brown hair unbraided in the custom of mourning, Elrond of Rivendell stood patiently at the tent doorway. There had been some tension lately in the camp from the new king of Men, Isildur. Rumor had it that it had to do with the young Peredhil lord, and the whereabouts of Sauron's ring of power. Elrond had been a close friend and standard bearer to her late brother Gil-Galad though, and Anthelísse greeted him with a slight smile.

"Elrond. What brings you to the healers, meldonya*?

The son of Earendil bowed in deference to the lady of the Noldor. "I have come to bid you farewell, Lady Anthelísse. On the morn I lead my people back to Imladris, there I hope to dwell in peace for many years to come." His deep grey eyes traveled past her shoulder to survey the wounded. "I have had my fill of war."

Anthelísse bowed in return. "I have considered you as a brother these past years, and I know that Gil-Galad would say the same if he stood here today. Will you ever heed the call of the Valar and sail to Valinor?"

With a slight and almost-human shrug, Elrond shook his head. "I cannot say. Not today, and perhaps not tomorrow, but someday I suspect the Blessed Realm shall call me to depart these shores. What of you and the Noldor, Anthelísse?"

"What Noldor?" She answered, sounding perhaps more weary and bitter than she had intended. "My people numbered few enough in Arda before even this war came upon us. Since Valinor opened its shores to us once again we have been diminishing like sand through an hourglass. It seems we are not long for this world, my friend."

Elrond held out a hand to Anthelísse, and she took it. "Be that as it may, you and your kin are always welcome in our Hidden Valley. Whether you should wish to join us there to live on in Middle-Earth, or if you only perhaps stop on your way to the Grey Havens, my doors are always open to you and yours."

"Hantanyel**, Elrond." With a gentle squeeze Anthelísse released his hand. "I shall keep that in mind, in the days to come. For now however there are still those that need my care here."

"Na lû e-govaned vîn, mellon-nin***." Elrond stepped back into the pale sunlight. He looked somehow older, careworn Anthelísse thought. She hoped that the Valar would indeed grant the Lord of Imladris the peace he so desired for the future. The two elves saluted one another with a hand to the heart, and then he was gone.

When she began her rounds to change dressings and apply healing salves, Anthelísse was surprised to see the intensity with which Thranduil was watching her. Looking up from checking that the stitches above his lungs were not inflamed, she met his intense gaze.

"Yes?"

The young Greenwood king frowned slightly. "You intend to leave Middle-Earth, my lady?"

Taken aback, she lowered the hem of Thranduil's tunic and tucked the bedsheet back into place. Keeping her eyes on her work allowed her to speak freely.

"Perhaps. My people are leaving these shores, and likely will do so by the hundreds now. The Valar have lifted their ban, and many are eager to return home now that Sauron is defeated."

Thranduil looked perplexed. Perhaps it was the youth of the elf lord's fair face, or the slight redness of his eyes that belied his grief, but for some reason Anthelísse found the expression very endearing.

"That seems somehow a waste to me. Why leave the world now, after all that has been sacrificed to rid it of evil?"

To that Anthelísse had no answer. Straightening up, she folded a roll of clean gauge into her pocket and narrowed her eyes. "You perhaps had best not speak so much for the time being, Lord Thranduil. Let your chest rest itself and heal." Just as she was turning away though, she heard her charge murmur in a soft, sad voice.

"Gil-Galad was your brother, was he not? I am sorry, Lady Anthelísse..."

Bowing her head, Anthelísse felt her shoulders drop with a sudden weight. Keeping her face turned away so that Thranduil could not see her struggle to remain composed, she replied "And I am sorry for your father, Thranduil Oropherion. He may indeed have been in error to call the charge, but none can deny his bravery."

Thranduil was still mulling over those words when Gurithon came to his bedside an hour later. The sun was setting, and plans had been made to lay King Oropher to rest as the first stars came to light. Wood elves loved starlight best above all else, and the Sindarin folk of the Greenwood shared that love.

Gurithon had entered the tent to find Thranduil stubbornly trying to support his own weight on his elbows. It appeared the young elf lord had taken it into his head that he would be making an appearance at his father's burial, come fire or torn stitches.

"But my lord, not this morning you were still unconscious!" Gurithon was all but attempting to hold Thranduil down, having taken his king by the shoulders to press him back down to the bed. "None will hold your absence against you, least of all your father!"

Eyes narrowed, Thranduil seemed to take this statement to the complete opposite effect Gurithon had been hoping for.

"No, but they will not respect me any better for it either. Come now Gurithon, be truthful; have you not heard the whispers that my father led our people to their deaths? That perhaps I am unfit to rule after him for being his son?"

The Captain of the Guard looked horrified. "No! I do not know where you have heard such things from, Aran-nin, but most assuredly not from our folk. I swear by Eru to you, your people both Sindarin and Silvan alike have been anxiously waiting for any news of your recovery." Shaking his head, Gurithon gave Thranduil a wounded look. "Surely you must know how beloved you are by the people of the Greenwood?"

"But why?" Thranduil's voice was full of despair as he sagged back against the pillow. "After the carnage our army suffered in battle? After my father called for the early charge? Why should any of them wish to see me on the throne?"

Gurithon sighed. He too had lost friends upon the battlefield two days ago. Oropher certainly counted as one of those friends though. "Thranduil, I can tell you now that there is scarcely a single elf among the army that would not have done the exact same thing in your father's place. The Noldor can say what they like, and call us as many variants of 'proud', 'fool-hardly' or 'mad' that they can imagine. Warriors of the Greenwood do not fight from the back though, and we never will." With a fierce, sorrowful smile, Gurithon lifted his chin to his king. "Your father knew that, thus we honor him still."

Smiling with equal ferocity through his tears, Thranduil reached for Gurithon's wrist. "I do not fight from the back either, Gurithon. Now call for a chair and four strong warriors. My father will be buried this evening, and I his son will be there to bear witness."

After a moment's hesitation, the captain nodded. "As you command, my king."

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

*Meldonya = My friend (Quenya)

**Hantanyel = I thank you (Quenya)

*** Na lû e-govaned vîn, mellon-nin = Until next we meet, my friend (Sindarin)


	5. Chapter 5 - Graves in Dagorlad

**This chapter is definitely a little angsty...but hey, it's a funeral. Things may or may not start to look up for poor Thranduil from here though, you'll just have to read and see. Plus people were asking for Thranduil and Elrond to meet, so here you go. :-)**

It was a somber procession that saw the fallen king Oropher to his grave. All throughout the day the survivors of the Greenwood had been about the gloomy task of burying their fallen brethren. The growing cemetery needed only one more to be complete. Mound after mound of piled earth cast shadows across their path as they sun set, making the ground look darkly streaked.

Oropher's body, cold and still but no less majestic in its shroud was carried by four pallbearers. Thranduil followed behind, likewise having to be carried in a chair with Gurithon and another captain taking up either side. How dearly Thranduil wished that he could have walked for his father's funeral procession! The healers would not hear of it though, and truth be told he was still so weak that there was no argument to be made otherwise.

The elves of the Greenwood walked in silence around the hillside and down onto the plains. The bodies of all the dead orcs had been gathered and burned, and the stench still lingered heavy in the air. Even with Sauron overthrown there was a darkness to the air in these lands, an oppression that hung heavy like the very sky. With so many dead buried here, no one foresaw that this place would ever be anything but forlorn in the future. None of them imagined either how in the years to come the plains would be swallowed by advancing marshland. By that time though it would be beyond their reach to recover the bodies that would be forever lost to the mists and the Will-o'-the-wisps.

The elves sang a soft, sad eulogy as they approached the open graveside. Despite Gurithon's previous words to him in the tent, Thranduil had been almost nervous in watching the faces of his people. If he had been expecting disapproval, reproach or even anger from the survivors of the Last Alliance, he found no trace of any such things. There was only sadness, unmeasured and unspeakable. Not a single Greenwood elf remaining could say that they had not lost someone dear to them in battle. Most if not all seemed to share Gurithon's sentiments though; they did not blame Oropher or his son for their losses.

Relieved enough to attend to his own grief, Thranduil stared at his father's body in its shroud as though he could see through the fine linen wraps. He almost wished he could lift the coverings and look upon Oropher one last time. His fingers twitched suddenly where they were clenched in his lap; a physical manifestation of a fleeting desire. Then he leaned back heavily upon the pillow in his chair and sighed. _He is not here anymore. _ Thranduil told himself. _Wherever he may be now, Adar is not in that shroud before us. _

Something stirred in his peripheral vision, and Thranduil turned sharply to look at the lip of the plains beyond. They did not expect Isildur and his folk nor any of the remaining Noldor elves to pay respects to the fallen Sindarin king. Isildur was haughty and completely unlike his father. Many suspected that without Elendil the old alliances between men and elves would quickly fade. As for the Noldor, Thranduil now knew without a doubt that many of them actively blamed Oropher for unnecessary deaths upon the battlefield. The Lórien elves too were gone, having left with obvious haste after burying their own king Amdír. Thranduil had no idea who besides their own people would be here.

A banner of dark blue with a silver ship upon it fluttered in the breeze over the heads of the approaching party. Thranduil narrowed his eyes, recognizing it as one that had flown behind the High King Gil-Galad's own standard in battle. It was the ship of Eärendil the Mariner, and although the singers continued their chant at Oropher's graveside many heads were beginning to subtly turn in the assembled crowd.

The folk of Imladris (or Rivendell as Thranduil had heard it called in the Common Tongue) did not make a showy, disruptive entrance. Rather they stood at a respectful distance, heads bowed and silent. Thranduil could not say whether he was pleased or annoyed by their presence. These elves had fought under Gil-Galad's command, submitting to his leadership as Oropher had not. Still, he supposed that it was an honorable gesture on their part.

More were still to come though. Another, much smaller party crested the hill and followed that of Imladris down onto the plain. This group carried the banner of the house of Gil-Galad itself with the white stars upon a blue field. Now many of the Sindarin and Silvan Greenwood elves were turning to look, although Thranduil shot a glance at the singers that _dared _them to fall silent. He did not care of the Valar themselves came over that hill; his father's eulogy would not be interrupted.

When he caught sight of who led the small delegation of Noldor elves, Thranduil himself could not help but watch their approach. The Lady Anthelísse wore a dark gown in the colors of mourning, as did many of her followers. The Noldor had no body to bury, no graveside at which to pay respects, and many of them had already begun to leave. Anthelísse had not forced them to remain when the sea so obviously called, but those loyal to Gil-Galad's sister had come at their lady's bidding to honor a fallen ally.

Thranduil was touched, and had to bow his head to contain his emotions. For the rest of the ceremony there was silence from the three assembled peoples. When the time came to place Oropher's body in the ground and cover it with earth, Thranduil called for his chair to be brought directly up to the graveside. He had always thought his father to be so tall and powerful, but the shrouded figure in the ground below looked somehow diminished. A lump formed in his throat, and Thranduil leaned forward to pick up a handful of dirt. The soil of this land was thin and dry. He wished he could bring Oropher home to be buried in the Greenwood. It was just too far though, and the king's place was with his army. Slowly opening his hand, Thranduil let the dirt flow through his fingers to mar the clean whiteness of his father's shroud.

"Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham, Adar.*"

When the mound of Oropher's grave grew tall with earth, Thranduil at last turned his gaze away. His people all stood silent and grave, and some could be seen to be weeping. That his father had ever come to find so devoted a kingdom he would forever be grateful for.

The Noldor and the folk of Imladris still remained as well, and although Thranduil knew himself to be both tired and weak he wanted to speak with them. When Gurithon moved to have his chair lifted and carried back to the tents, he held up a hand.

"Wait. I will not retire just yet."

Seeing the tall, golden-haired Anthelísse approaching with the Lord of Imladris at her side, Gurithon frowned slightly but nodded. Thranduil knew the captain would likely love to have him spirited back to the care of the healers with all haste. If he was going to be king now, he would have to start by being strong even when he didn't feel it.

"King Thranduil." Anthelísse bowed her head respectfully, the silver circlet on her brow catching the last rays of sunlight. It was the first time Thranduil had heard himself addressed by his father's title aloud. It saddened him horribly, to have the final reminder that Oropher was gone spoken to the world. Hearing it said by Lady Anthelísse made it less harsh though. Still, the sudden formal posturing from the Lady of the Noldor caught him off guard. Somehow it was easier to still think of Anthelísse as the healer whom he had thought was the sun.

"Lady Anthelísse." He greeted her in turn, surprised at how tired his voice sounded. "We had not looked to see so many paying respects at my father's funeral. You have my thanks."

"We both wished to honor a brave and noble king." She extended a slender arm to beckon the Lord of Imladris into their conversation. "May I introduce Lord Elrond Half-Elven of Imladris. He has long been a friend to myself and my brother."

"Mae go'vannen, Aran Thranduil of the Greenwood." Elrond placed a hand to his heart and bowed, his long dark hair fluttering in the slight breeze. Thranduil nodded in greeting as well, eyeing the half-elf carefully. He had heard something of Eärendil's son, most particularly how he and his twin had been fostered by the two eldest sons of Fëanor. Any elf knew the sordid and violent history of the Fëanorians, and so Thranduil had thought perhaps to be cautious of one associated with them. This Elrond did not look anything like a foundling of those fiery Noldorin kin-slayers though, with his peaceable expression and gentle grey eyes.

"You speak the Sindarin tongue, Lord Elrond?" Thranduil couldn't help but arch an eyebrow, surprised. "In truth I had expected that one of your upbringing would favor Quenya."

Elrond smiled slightly. "I speak both fluently, as do most of the people of Imladris. My preference however is toward Sindarin, the tongue of my mother's people."

"Well, whatever dialect you speak, I thank you for your presence here today." Thranduil shifted slightly, acutely aware that his chest was growing tighter with every word. His wounds were going to need tending sooner rather than later.

With the sharp eye of a healer, Anthelísse picked up on the source of Thranduil's sudden silence. "Perhaps we had best retire to the camp? These lands may be well rid of orcs, but there is a dullness to the night that I do not love."

Thranduil saw what the Noldorin lady had done there, and was grateful for her deflecting attention from his poor condition. With a wave he called forward Gurithon, who nearly pounced with relief that the young king was going to be reasonable.

"Are you planning to depart Middle-Earth as well then, like so many of the Noldor are doing, Lord Elrond?" Thranduil asked, his eyes fluttering briefly to Lady Anthelísse. For a moment he felt a twinge of something that felt vaguely like regret.

The half-elf shook his head. "No, I have a home and folk to care for in Imladris. We may yet meet again someday, if peace endures."

"Perhaps." Thranduil was finding it harder to speak, and wanted nothing more than to rest. Still, as Gurithon and his other guards came to lift the chair, he added one last thing that he particularly hoped Anthelísse would mark.

"I should hope that perhaps some of the Noldor will dwell for a time here in Arda. The halls of the Greenwood are open to any who still remain of the Last Alliance."

Elrond smiled and offered a gesture of farewell. "As is the valley of Imladris. Until then, Thranduil Oropherion."

When Gurithon had his chair lifted, Thranduil had to delay them a moment as Lady Anthelísse approached. Leaning in close and lowering her voice to give him some privacy, she murmured;

"Do your wounds pain you greatly? The dressings likely need changing, and the stiches checking. If you would deign to remain in the healers' tent tonight rather than moving to your own, I will come and tend you. Or do you have your own healer to whose care you would like to be transferred?"

"No!" Thranduil exclaimed almost a little too quickly before recollecting himself. Oropher did…had in fact employed a healer, although now Thranduil supposed Siroth's services belonged to him. Still, the thought of spending another night in the public healers' tent did not off-put him even for a moment. "No, Lady Anthelísse, I would not prefer to leave your care just yet." His voice was steadier now, although definitely breathy sounding.

Anthelísse nodded, leaning back. As she did so a long lock of golden hair fell forward to brush Thranduil's arm. For reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with his wounds Thranduil felt his chest tighten.

"Very well then, I shall come to attend to you shortly." Anthelísse's gaze slid away toward the marker which the Noldor had erected earlier that day. "Until then, I have more respects to pay to another…"

As he was carried back up the lip of the plain toward the encampment, Thranduil could see in his mind's eye the tall stone cairn that would now mark the site where Gil-Galad had fallen. Although it was inscribed with the High King's name, he and he supposed many others would now also think of it as a memorial to all who had fallen in the Battle of Dagorlad. If nothing else, their people's sacrifice in the name of peace gave elves both Noldorin and Sindarin alike something in common.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

* "My heart shall weep until I see you again, Father."


	6. Chapter 6 - Nin lithiach

**This will be our last chapter hanging around the encampment at the plains of Dagorlad. From here it's back to the Greenwood for Thranduil (yay!), and will he perhaps have company with him...? ;-)**

Thranduil had only just been settled back onto the cot in the healers' tent when Anthelísse appeared. The circlet was gone from her brow, freeing her long golden hair to fall forward across her shoulders. The elf lady's blue eyes were slightly reddened, confirming Thranduil's suspicions that she had indeed been weeping. When the young king of the Greenwood greeted her with a tiny smile though, Anthelísse returned it.

"Your chest was paining you earlier?" she asked, washing her hands over a basin and blotting them dry on a cloth draped over its edge.

Thranduil winced, acutely aware that even the light weight of the blanket was uncomfortable at the moment.

"Was it so obvious?"

Anthelísse shook her head, approaching his beside and lifting back the cover. "No. Do not fear, King Thranduil. That you were present this evening was impressive enough given your condition."

Doing his best to lay still, Thranduil allowed Gil-Galad's youngest sister to undo his loose tunic and unwind the dressings about his torso. They were not alone in the tent, but most of the other wounded were either resting or being tended by other healers who moved silently about. The grey sun had long since set, and lanterns hung from support poles cast a low orange glow.

As Anthelísse gently probed along the edge of the numerous stitches atop Thranduil's clavicle he grimaced. The spear had gone straight through his shoulder, and both front and back would no doubt have scarring. Apologetically, Anthelísse dabbed a poultice from the small bedside table onto her fingers and began to smooth it along his raw flesh.

Thranduil had always secretly been somewhat shy, even as the prince of the Greenwood. Where Oropher had been outgoing and comfortable among the crowds that thronged the woodland halls at feasts, his son preferred to associate in smaller groups. Never before had Thranduil ever been in close quarters with an elf-maid, despite the teasing of the other Sindarin youths as he came of age. To have the Lady of the Noldor now tending to him with such comfortable ease made his chest flutter. He felt perhaps he ought to say something to break the silence, but Anthelísse seemed so intent upon her work that he thought the better of interrupting her.

When finally Anthelísse straightened, satisfied, Thranduil was certain that she would see the deep blush that had covered his face.

It would have taken a blind fool to miss it. Wiping the remnants of the herb poultice off her fingers, Anthelísse found herself at a loss for words. Oropher's son was young, wounded, and grieving, and perhaps the tenderness she was feeling was that of a caregiver toward the vulnerable. The pink shyness covering Thranduil's cheeks was undeniably endearing though. Turning away, Anthelísse thought to perhaps retire for the evening. She must be tired, and out of sorts after leaving her brother's graveside.

"Lady Anthelísse?"

Thranduil's voice was soft, nervousness threatening to make it waver. Turning back from the washbasin, Anthelísse set aside the cloth in her hands.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Do you intend to depart Arda because you wish to reach Valinor in all haste, or because the Noldor believe there is nothing left for elf-kind here?"

Almost exasperated, Anthelísse looked away and set about undoing the ties of the smock covering her mourning gown. This marked the third time now that Thranduil had brought up the departure of the Noldor in her presence.

"Why such an interest in the intentions of our people, King Thranduil? With my brother dead, there is nothing to keep the Noldor here upon these shores. Besides, the Valar have opened the way for us to return home, so why should we not heed their call?"

Thranduil had the grace to look slightly abashed. Inching himself up gingerly into a half-sitting recline, he followed Anthelísse's every movement with an intensity that she could not read.

"Have you ever seen Valinor then, my lady?"

Anthelísse had to shake her head. "No, I was born after my people departed from that realm. I have never seen the light of the Two Trees, nor the white shores before them."

A healer came up between the rows of beds, clearly intent on speaking to Anthelísse. Leaning in and murmuring in a low voice, the Noldo elf conversed with her briefly before returning to the vigil over the wounded. Thranduil however was not deterred, and spoke again before Anthelísse could excuse herself.

"Why such a hurry to leave Middle-Earth then? Are there not sights and lands to entice your interest here compared to Valinor?"

Anthelísse arched a golden brow at her patient. "I may have been born after the Exile of the Noldor, but I am still old enough to have seen more than a fair piece of the lands of Arda. Where realm could you suggest as being wondrous enough to compete with the Blessed Realm?"

"...The Greenwood?"

Under the Lady of the Noldor's piercing gaze Thranduil felt both exhilarated and terrified. In truth the Woodland Realm would likely not be a place of joy and beauty again for many years after having lost so many warriors in battle. His would not be a homecoming marked by celebration, but by mourning. Still Thranduil loved that wild and ancient forest as if he had been born beneath its eves. Just as he was sure he was to love Anthelísse, daughter of Orodreth and Eldalótë. He had just buried his father, and the thought of the golden Noldor lady before him leaving this world as well wrenched at his heart.

"The Greenwood?" Anthelísse frowned slightly. With a quick glance over her shoulder in the direction of the other healers as they made their rounds, she reached for the lone chair at Thranduil's bedside and sat. "And what would I do there, Thranduil Oropherion? Surely you have your own healers among your people, and I am no Silvan huntress."

The words came quickly, almost an earnest babble from Thranduil's lips. "You would be welcome there as my guest, Lady Anthelísse. After all, your skill has all but saved my life after battle. And the woodland realm is a beautiful place, full of hidden paths and whispering streams. You could wander for a century and still not truly know all of the secrets of the forest."

"Lady Anthelísse?"

The healer who had spoken to her earlier called from a short distance away, leaning over the bedside of another casualty of war. Clearly Anthelísse was needed elsewhere at the moment.

Rising, she tucked a stray lock of her sun-touched hair behind an ear. More than a small part of her was tired of this war-torn world, and wanted nothing more than to sail beyond those grey mists into the waiting arms of her family. The Noldor were a passionate people though, and there was a desire to know more igniting within her soul. It was a small, humble flicker for the moment, but it was there.

"Will you consider what I have said?" Thranduil gazed up at Anthelísse beseechingly, his heart worn clearly on his sleeve.

"Yes...yes I will." Picking up her smock once again, Anthelísse hesitated before taking leave of the young king.

Slowly, Thranduil reached out the hand of his uninjured arm. His fingertips just barely brushed her wrist, touching more sleeve than skin. All the small hairs on Anthelísse's arm rose to attention though, and gooseflesh prickled everywhere.

_"Nin lithiach."_*

"Lady Anthelísse?" The healer's call was getting more insistent, and it appeared one of the wounded was in need of care right this minute.

Just before turning away, Anthelísse met Thranduil's gaze one more time. Both elves were blue of eye, but where Thranduil's were the pale, icy turquoise of Oropher, Anthelísse's was as rich and deep as cobalt. It was like a meeting of sky and sea, with endlessness in between.

Then Anthelísse was gone, rushing to assist with a patient whose grievous condition was taking a turn for the worse. As Thranduil lay abed looking at the tent ceiling and listening to the agonized groans of the dying human, he thought of his father. To him at least, the tents of the healers had become a strangely beautiful place. He was momentarily grateful that Oropher had died in battle rather than passing slowly and in agony here. If there was any sight fit for a man's last though, in Thranduil's opinion it was the beautiful face of Anthelísse.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

*You enchant me.


	7. Chapter 7 - Permission for Joy

**I finally got around to writing the new chapter, yay! So the thing you have to know about Anthilesse is that for years (since the Fall of Nargothrond) she's been pretty much cleaning up the messes of war by working as a healer in her brother's army camps. The very notion of doing something entirely for herself is quite foreign, and it may take some 'gentle' prodding to get her comfortable with the idea.**

The encampment had been dwindling noticeably day by day since the final battle of the Last Alliance. First it had been the elves of Lorien departing as one force. Then the army of Men under the command of Isildur had left with scarcely a word of farewell to the remaining elves. By the time the folk of Imladris disappeared over the horizon with a fluttering of blue banners, only a small gathering of tents remained overlooking the plains of Dagorlad. Come evening even these would be gone.

The Noldor elves had already begun their departure the night before. In small groups and larger parties, the Exiles stole away by shadowed paths that would eventually lead them westward to the Havens. When the time came for the Greenwood folk to turn homewards, there were only a handful of tents flying Noldo color remaining.

Gurithon had been thoroughly scandalized when Thranduil had voiced his intent to ride his horse that morning. 'My king, you cannot possibly!' and 'Your wounds will not permit it!' were the chief arguments made, and made repeatedly. The captain was joined in his campaign by Siroth, the Sindarin healer whom Oropher had always included in his retinue. Between the two, Thranduil had finally been persuaded to at least begin the long journey northwards riding in a litter.

When the young king was helped out from the healers' tent on the arms of both Gurithon and another of his warriors, Thranduil supposed he could be grateful to at least be walking now. Still, each step was slow and labored. The effort of staying upright despite the throbbing of his chest and shoulder was significant. Thranduil was almost thankful to recline on the cushioned litter set up for pulling between the harnesses of four mounted riders.

With a glance around at his people, Thranduil supposed it really must be time to leave. All of the Greenwood survivors were assembled, and looked to their king with a contained eagerness. They all wished to quit this place of sorrow and return home to their forest. With one last look across the plains to the burial grounds of the Last Alliance, Thranduil gave the order. It was time to go.

"My Lord Thranduil, look!" exclaimed Eneniel, one of their Silvan archers.

Following Eneniel's long white finger, Thranduil and many others turned. The final Noldor tent collapsed...and was rapidly bound up by a handful of elves. With this final dismantling of the encampment, Anthelísse gathered her followers to her and approached. Thranduil sat up straighter (as straight as his shoulders would permit) to greet the elven lady.

"Lady Anthelísse, do you journey west then?" he asked. "Or have you considered my invitation?" Thranduil could scarcely dare to breath, much less hope.

With one dozen Noldor elves behind her, Anthelísse spoke both to Thranduil and the elves of the Greenwood assembled.

"I have...and I accept your invite, King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. Myself and those still remaining wish to both see your forest homeland and impose upon your hospitality for a time." A slight movement quirked the corner of Anthelísse's lips in a half-smile. "We shall see if the Greenwood truly does rival the mystery of the Blessed Realm."

Thranduil could have cheered aloud. He was a king now though, albeit a youthful one. He couldn't keep the pleasure from shining clear across his face when he replied.

"You and your folk are most welcome then, my lady. May I offer you a place here beside me?" Thranduil indicated the spacious litter, doing his best to recline upon the cushions in an inviting rather than painful way.

Anthelísse shook her head. "I thank you for the offer, but will ride alongside." Suddenly, a wry gleam came to her sea-blue eyes. "You and my horse shall simply have to share my company. Besides, is it not customary for a litter to be accompanied by a rider?"

Gurithon gave a choked sound from nearby that was no doubt the smothered remnants of a chortle. Indeed it was often the custom that when an unacquainted pair traveled together with a litter, one would ride outside on horseback. Usually it was the other way round of the current situation though, with the lady in the litter and the lord on the horse!

Resisting the urge to elbow the captain, Thranduil acknowledged the gentle hit with a feigned wince. "Yes, indeed it is Lady Anthelísse. Shall we depart then?"

"My people are ready as yours are."

They moved as one company; Silvan, Sindarin and a handful of Noldor elves. Of their presence they left no trace on that lonely bluff. The Eldar would never love that land, not then or ever. Even the markers of the graves on the plains beyond left no softened memories for them to carry back in their hearts. They were all more than glad to quit the plain of Daglorlad for good, and never look back.

As they travelled, Thranduil for a time struggled to find a clever way to engage the Lady of the Noldor in conversation. Everything that came to mind sounded inane or foolish to him though upon closer examination. So, he instead contented himself to study the other Noldorin elves Anthelísse had in her company.

They were a polar people; that was for certain. Sindarin elves as a rule tended to be fair of hair and eye, some going all the way to silver-haired as was common for the folk of Lothlorien. Silvan elves on the other hand were usually of the same coloring as their forest homeland. Most had hair in varying shades of brown, although the occasional auburn and even red could be seen among the ranks. The Noldor seemed to have elements of both the lightness of the Sindarin and the darkness of the Silvan. Most in fact were dark of hair; five with raven black tresses and four so dark brown it was difficult to say. The other three like Anthelísse however were so golden blonde that they shone in the sunlight. If Thranduil recalled correctly, Gil-Galad himself had been dark-headed. It fascinated him then that the High King's younger sister should be so different in appearance.

Watching Anthelísse ride in the pale sunlight was like seeing music with one's eyes. The Noldor lady's arms and legs were long and lean, her frame moving with unconscious ease with the rolling gait of the horse. As she rode alongside, Thranduil found himself unabashedly studying her profile.

Keenly aware of Thranduil's eyes upon her, Anthelísse kept looking straight ahead. She knew well enough just where the Sindarin king's head and heart were at. Until she could say the same of her own though, she intended to keep some distance between the two of them. _'We are only going to stay for a time in the Greenwood, just to see more of Arda before we depart._' She told herself.

Aislinn, one of her handmaidens sidled her horse up to Anthelísse's on the side opposite the litter. "My lady, if I may?" she asked, indicating with a light toss of her midnight-black tresses a desire for privacy.

"Yes Aislinn, what is it?" Anthelísse asked, pulling up on her rein just slightly to put some space between them and the sharp ears of King Thranduil.

"Why are you delaying our departure from the Havens? You know I will gladly follow you anywhere, even if that means ignoring the summons of Valinor. But what is it that you intend in the Woodland Realm?"

Ordinarily such questions would not be expected from a servant to their liege. Aislinn had been Anthelísse's companion for so many centuries now that any distance between them existed only for the sake of the public eye. In private they remained just two elleths whom had grown up together Nargothrond.

Anthelísse had no good answer to that, and Aislinn of course saw through the excuse she had given the others the night before. These twelve elves who had remained by her side were loyal to her above all else, even the summons of the Valar back to the Blessed Realm after so many hundreds of years of exile. When Anthelísse told them of her intention to travel north and stay a time in the Greenwood, none of them had questioned her. She had been wondering how long it would take Aislinn to enquire deeper though.

"Perhaps it is because I am not yet ready to leave Middle-Earth behind for good." Anthelísse said, nudging her horse smoothly to avoid the head of a marching column of archers. "Once we sail, we will never return to this world again. Perhaps I am curious what more there is here upon these shores."

Aislinn raised an eyebrow. The breeze caught an edge of her dark purple cloak and sent it fluttering; a splash of color in the drabness of the landscape. "What...more like '_Whom'_." With a keen twitch of her grey eyes toward the litter, Aislinn smiled.

Instantly Anthelísse felt color rising in her cheeks. "I'm sure I have no idea what you mean." She answered perhaps too hastily.

Catching the waving corner of her cloak and tucking it back into its clasp, Aislinn clucked her tongue. "Anthelísse, you've been caring for the wounded and following your brother's campaigns ever since the fall of Nargothrond. You cannot possibly imagine that any one of us, either here or in Valinor would begrudge you pursuing a bit of personal happiness?"

Anthelísse gave her handmaiden and friend a rather sharp look. "Gil-Galad is dead, and if happiness is not what we were seeking when we fought against Sauron then whatever did so many die for anyways?"

With a sigh, Aislinn rolled her eyes. "Have it your way, my lady. Your obligations to the war and the Last Alliance are over now though, and I urge you to remember that. I am not in any hurry to ride for the Havens, nor are the rest of us."

Both irritated and privately cheered to have such nosey companions at her side, Anthelísse gave her horse a nudge to move into a space between the battalions. There she rode in silence for a time, alone with her thoughts while surrounded by Greenwood soldiers. When an hour later she dropped back and dismounted to walk next to the litter, Thranduil greeted her with a disarming smile.

"Lady Anthelísse."

"Lord Thranduil. If you don't mind, I would be glad to take you up on the offer of a seat in the litter. One can only ride so many hours in a day before going saddle-sore, after all."

Thranduil's smile could have lit up even the depths of Mordor.


	8. Chapter 8 - Lingering on the Threshold

**Sorry for the long delay between chapters! As some of you may know (from my facebook page 'GreenScholar Tales') I was recently asked to enter a writing contest, and was working on my entry for that. This chapter is a wee bit short, but we're back in business lol. XD **

It was some weeks before finally they came into sight of the southern tip of the Greenwood. Their capital lay in the Black Mountains at the heart of the forest. The former capital at Amon Lanc was naught but a deserted fortress now, having been so since Oropher had removed their people after Sauron's return from the fall of Numenor.

As they passed by the southern edge of the Greenwood the tallest spires of the old fortress could just be seen. A short time ago their party had diverged from the River Running, which would eventually lead north to the kingdom of Dale.

By now well enough healed to ride his horse without trouble, Thranduil glanced anxiously over at Anthelísse. This was her first sighting of the Greenwood, and he rather regretted that the ruin of Amon Lanc would be the initial impression. The elves of the Woodland Realm had built a new city at the foot of the Black Mountains which was by far fairer than the remains of the old fortress.

Long golden hair fluttering behind her in the late summer breeze, Anthelísse was gazing with interest toward the forest. The trees were somewhat less thick and grand in these southern parts, affording a clear view to the ruins.

"That there, the structure looks elvish." She said, pointing with a long finger over the heads of the army around them. "Was it occupied by your people?"

"Yes" Answered Thranduil, taking a moment while the Lady of the Noldor was looking away to massage his shoulder stealthily. It still pained him often, but less so with every passing day. "My father found the Silvan folk of the forest centered there at Amon Lanc when first we joined their people. There we lived for some time, but after the fall of Numenor we relocated ourselves closer to the heart of the Greenwood."

"It looks quite forlorn." Anthelísse commented, still looking at the old fortress as they rode. The crumbling towers seemed to pass only very slowly at a distance.

"That it does. But I assure you, our new capital surpasses Amon Lanc in both beauty and location." Thranduil had to pause for breath to prevent himself falling into the babble that often escaped when he spoke to Anthelísse. "We now live at the border between forest and sky, with the Black Mountains at our back and the Greenwood all around."

"That sounds rather dwarvish to me, to be living in the arms of a mountain range." Anthelísse heard a murmur from her left, where her handmaiden Aislinn rode a few paces back.

Anthelísse shot a warning glare at Aislinn, but that didn't stop spots of pink from coloring Thranduil's cheeks. Smiling reassuringly at the young king, Anthelísse nodded.

"I cannot wait to see your people's home, hir-nin." She said, well aware of Thranduil's desire to impress her with his homeland. "We ourselves have lived in the arms of the mountains before, as the hidden city of Gondolin was positioned so."

Aislinn's embarrassment could nearly be heard as a tangible force in the air. Once again smiling, Thranduil looked intrigued.

"I have heard what books and tutors could tell of the city of Gondolin, but there is nothing like a first-hand account. Perhaps you could tell me of the hidden Noldor kingdom Lady Anthelísse?"

They talked at length of the historical elvish kingdoms of Arda, and many other topics besides. When evening fell and the army halted to make camp Anthelísse always dined alongside Thranduil and the other Sindarin nobles in his tent. It was almost a happy journey for Oropher's son.

The terrible losses suffered at the Battle of Daglorlad could only be put aside for so long though. The closer they drew to the capital, the more a shadow began to creep over the hearts of the returning elves. All of them carried the burden of survivor's guilt, especially with two of their number having fallen for every one that journeyed home. Thranduil above all felt the weight of responsibility upon him.

Anthelísse was surprised to find her previously-endearing host becoming more and more introverted as they approached the last days of their trek. Normally it was always Thranduil who sought her out and had the first word in their many long conversations while on the road. More and more she took it upon herself to attempt to stir the Greenwood king from silence. Her attempts were not always successful.

By the time they at last turned their horses westward and entered upon the forest roads, the aura of melancholy hanging over the entire army was palpable. Thranduil was actively dreading that first moment when they rode into the main citadel. Then would their people see for the first time just what the price of his father's pride had been.

Suspecting as much, Anthelísse noted how the ranks of the army slowed their step and arranged themselves into a solemn procession with only the slightest direction from Gurithon. When Thranduil positioned himself at the head of the column to lead his warriors into the city, she purposefully placed herself just behind him. Stranger she may be among the folk of the Greenwood, Anthelísse still wanted Thranduil to know that she was with him.

Holding up a hand, Thranduil brought the army of elves to a halt on the forest road. Leaning back on her saddle, Anthelísse murmured to one of her folk to unfurl her standard. The blue banner of the Noldor rose and hung slack among all the other green and silver Woodland flags. It wasn't terrible visible in the low light of the forest, but Anthelísse was the Lady of Noldor and would be properly heralded as such.

"Gurithon, sound our arrival."

Thranduil spoke in a low voice, his eyes fixed on the bend in the path before them. No doubt the capital city lay just beyond. Sure enough, when Anthelísse raised her eyes to the thick canopy she could just make out the vast greyness of mountains to the north. The Black Mountains were not numerous or tall, but against the vastness of the forest they loomed immensely.

The Silvan captain took up a horn from his belt and with a deep breath blew into its mouthpiece. The sound immediately brought flashes of the last time he had heard it rushing to the surface of Thranduil's mind. Charging down the plains at his father's side...rushing to meet the orcs head-on and alone...

Nudging his horse forward, Thranduil led the army down the road and around the bend.


	9. Chapter 9 - The King is Dead

**Guess who didn't actually vanish and die? XD Haha I've crawled out from under my rock to bring you a new chapter of TLEQ! So I have a challenge for you with this chapter. I've introduced Oropher's widowed queen (Thranduil's mother) as a character. Her identity is in fact a canon Tolkien-written one though! If you can figure out who she is based on the subtle/sparse clues and Oropher's own personal history then I will give you a shout-out in the next chapter! **

The forest city of the Woodland Realm lay nestled in the arms of the Black Mountains, a small but imposing mountain range in the heart of the Greenwood. A single, sloping road led the way up from under the canopy to higher ground. It was the only entrance to Oropher's capital, guarded by a set of black iron gates wrought in spiraling vines and ornate thorns. Even from beyond the gates the city was visible as it spanned the mountain hollow. Its design was not unlike Menegroth, the 'Thousand Caves' of Doriath where Oropher had spent his youth. Unlike Menegroth though, much of the city of Emyn Duir was located on the mountainside rather than within it. When planning its design, the late king had taken much inspiration not only from Menegroth but also from Gondolin.

Perhaps that was why Anthelísse felt Emyn Duir to be a strangely familiar place as they approached with the returning Greenwood army. She had never been to these parts of Arda before, and yet the mountainside city beckoned invitingly as their horses climbed the steep road toward it.

As though by some unforeseen force, the wrought iron gates fell back silently before Thranduil when his horse approached. Trees grew upon the Black Mountains nearly to their summits, and even upon the mountainside their way was shaded in green. Gurithon held the banner of the Greenwood high as the new king led his warriors home.

The street on either side was lined by buildings both elegant and fair. Ivy twined thickly along their walls, and springs of clear water trickled hidden out of sight. As the army road ever upwards through the city, elves began to emerge from their niches and gather.

There was no shouting, no calling out from the Greenwood elves as they filled the streets. The price of victory was clear for all to see. Many times Anthelísse saw an elleth or ellon rush out from inside a home with a smile, only to watch it die as the solemn procession passed.

Murmurs of _"The king is dead"_ began to spread throughout the people. All watched with pale faces as Thranduil rode at the head of the army in the place where Oropher had been expected. There were more than a few eyes on Anthelísse and her company as well, marking well the blue banner of the Noldor that her servant Varnon carried.

Then came the realization that it was not just Oropher who was absent from the survivors. One by one, families searched for and missed members among the columns of soldiers. Weeping could be heard somewhere among the crowd, a sound that only grew as the gates swung shut behind the last of the returning elves.

By the time they reached the steps of the palace of Emyn Duir, a silence as deep and still as death had fallen upon the entire populace. Many holding one another for support in their grief, the elves of the Greenwood gathered around the mountain courtyard behind the army. All eyes were on Thranduil as he slid down from his horse and climbed halfway up the steps.

Dismounting herself, Anthelísse silently gathered her dozen followers about her and waited. She would wait for a formal invitation before approaching the palace of the Woodland Realm. Together, the handful of Noldo placed themselves to one side of the assembly. Anthelísse gazed toward the palace and felt her heart leap to her throat as she spied an approaching elf woman. This must be the queen; Oropher's wife and Thranduil's mother.

The royal lady was somewhat short for an elf. Her long hair shone burnished brown in the setting sunlight, and her face though unlined as was the way of the Eldar radiated both great age and bravery. She wore a gown of a deep mossy hue, embroidered with what appeared to be stylized dragons across the collar. She looked quite Silvan, although Anthelísse suspected the queen was more likely Sindarin by the set of her green eyes. Looking between mother and son, Anthelísse thought that Thranduil had taken after his father almost entirely in looks.

The queen crossed the upper courtyard on swift feet, a small group of courtiers some distance behind. By the time she and Thranduil met at the top of the stairs tears could be seen sparkling at the tips of her dark eyelashes.

"Thranduil…you've come back to us." Said the queen, reaching out to embrace her son and pull him close. Anthelísse saw Thranduil wince ever so slightly, but he bowed his head to his mother's kiss all the same. The absence of Oropher gaped like an open wound for all to see.

"Naneth…" Thranduil sounded choked and so very young. "Adar, he…"

"I know." The queen said simply, taking Thranduil's hands in hers. "I know."

At the bottom of the stairs, Gurithon cleared his throat quietly. "Aran-nin, the people?"

The queen released Thranduil and turned him toward the steps by the shoulders. "We shall talk in private later, ion-nin. For now, you are the king before you are my son."

When Thranduil turned away from his mother, he was met by the entirety of the people of Emyn Duir, all standing in mournful quiet awaiting the words of their new king. There was scarcely a dry eye in the entire assemblage, and the lucky minority whose loved ones had returned clung to each other.

Anthelísse remembered the ease with which her brother had always addressed crowds. Gil-Galad had taken to the mantle of High King naturally; a born leader. Watching Thranduil gaze at the faces of his people now, she prayed that the Valar would give him the strength to rule. She didn't know when she had become so concerned with the fate of the Woodland Realm, or perhaps just its young king. Some things cannot be pinpointed, especially affairs of the heart.

Finally, Thranduil broke the silence that had fallen like a shroud across Emyn Duir.

"To you, my people, I wish I could say that these coming days are to be filled with only joy and peace. Now that the enemy in Mordor has been vanquished, these years before us ought to be among the happiest of our long lives."

Thranduil's voice sounded thin, wavery, unconvinced. _'He really is but a youth' _Anthelísse thought, looking down at her tightly clasped hands. _'This station has come upon him too soon'_.

"Alas, how can they be?" Thranduil continued after swallowing hard. His eyes darted to Gurithon, who nodded slowly, encouragingly. Then they landed on Anthelísse. She tried to smile, although she feared it looked more watery than supportive. "We have won peace for this world, but have paid too dearly for it. Your fathers, brothers, sisters, mothers, all have sacrificed beyond the measure of grief before the gates of the Morannon. Their blood, including my father's, could never have been fairly matched for its value to us."

The elves of the Greenwood listened in complete silence, no one moving except to brush away a tear here and there. Reunited lovers stood with their heads upon each other's shoulders, and those not so lucky hung their heads with hair unbound in mourning. Looking around at them all, Thranduil felt his courage waver. What could he possibly say to these folk, Sindarin and Silvan alike that could possibly justify so much death?

Looking once more at Anthelísse, her head bowed inside her blue hood, he remembered that she too had lost kin in that rueful battle. His father may not have liked Gil-Galad, Valar knew Thranduil himself did not really care for the High King. Still, he had been Anthelísse's elder brother. Rather than try to speak to every elf present, he focused himself and spoke directly to her.

"There is nothing we can do to fetch back those who have gone to Mandos, and there are no words I can speak to take away the pain of their loss. But I promise you, we will make their sacrifice stand for something worthwhile. We will make use of the fall of Sauron to reclaim that which we have lost. The northern borders of the Greenwood have long been barred to us, overrun by orcs and other manner of foul creatures. We will now make safe all the forest from here to the Grey Mountains. The Greenwood shall from this day forth be a place of solace and refuge from the vast wilds beyond. The enemy is gone, and we have earned this haven forevermore. Let us rebuild our realm, that we need never pay such a price for peace ever again."

There was no applause, but the approving nods from many of the elves gathered was enough. No one in Emyn Duir had the heart to celebrate anything, nor should they. Still, for Thranduil it sufficed just to have his people listen to his words and accept them as being from their king.

Handing the banner of the Woodland Realm to another, Gurithon stepped forward and climbed the steps up from the courtyard. Reach the stair below Thranduil, the captain knelt and offered forth his bow.

"Thranduil Oropherion, to you I swear allegiance as my king from this day henceforth unto my last days upon both Arda and Aman. I offer you my bow, as a symbol of my service to you and your house. By the will of the Valar, long may you reign."

"Long may you reign." It was not a cry of triumph but a fervent murmur that traveled through the gathering of elves. One by one, all present began to sink to one knee as Gurithon had done. Anthelísse did so as well, and her followers quickly followed suite. The queen bowed her head to her son, and the folk of the Woodland Realm paid homage to their new king.


	10. Chapter 10 - Formalities

**Time for Anthelísse and co. to get settled in, and Anthelísse discusses some private concerns she's been harboring with her friend/handmaiden. Everyone needs Girl Time, especially queens!**

**Did anyone guess who I would make Thranduil's mother be? For you non-Silm readers, Nellas is a character in 'The Children of Hurin', a friend of Turin and Beleg's in Doriath. Considering that Oropher is originally from Doriath, I thought it made (some) sense lol! **

**P.S. You can find me on Facebook at ****'GreenScholar Tales'**

* * *

After the public acknowledgement of Thranduil as King of the Woodland Realm, elves began to drift away from the main courtyard of Emyn Duir. Most if not all had their own private mourning to attend to. Many were still present though as Thranduil formally presented the Lady Anthelísse and her entourage as guests in the Greenwood.

"Naneth, may I introduce to you Lady Anthelísse, daughter of Orodreth and High Queen of the Noldor in Arda." Thranduil said, reaching out to gesture her toward his mother as she and her herald climbed the steps. It was a pretty title, _'High Queen'_, but when the Noldor in Middle-Earth numbered a single dozen notwithstanding those in Imladris, Anthelísse supposed it did not count for much.

Still, the late Oropher's queen bowed her head cordially. "Gil-Galad's sister. You are welcome to stay within our halls as my son's honored guest, hiril-nin."

Thranduil seemed pleased. "Lady Anthelísse, this is my mother; Queen Nellas of the Woodland Realm, formerly of Doriath."

"It is my honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Nellas." Anthelísse replied, echoing the queen's gesture. "Your son has been most generous in his offer of hospitality."

"Come, you must be weary after your long journey from the south." The queen turned away from the courtyard where the soldiers and their families were dispersing. "You must forgive me Lady Anthelísse, but I would have my son to myself for a little while at least. We have much to discuss..." Nellas's voice sounded heavy with sorrow as she laid a hand upon Thranduil's arm.

"Yes Naneth." Thranduil looked regretfully at Anthelísse, then raised a hand to summon forward a servant. The elf, a tall Silvan with hawk-like eyes darted forward from the direction of the palace. "Caladorn, see to it that the Lady Anthelísse and her folk are given quarters worthy of our best hospitality."

"As you wish hir-nin." The servant named Caladorn bowed.

"I am sorry that I must leave you for now, my lady." Thranduil said, glancing toward his mother who was now walking a few paces ahead toward the palace doors. "Would you accept an invitation to join myself and the court for dinner tonight?"

Anthelísse, who found herself unexpectedly tired and in need of solitude, did not mind the empty time between then and dinner in the slightest.

"I look forward to it, King Thranduil." She answered, turning to her followers and beckoning them forward. "Where shall I find you?"

"The Upper Halls. It is smaller than the Heartwood Hall which we usually use for feasting, but I will send a servant to guide you. Na lû e-govaned vîn..." *

"Until then." Anthelísse placed a hand to her heart and watched as the young king hurried to fall into stride alongside his mother. The pair, one short and the other tall, one dark and the other light crossed the upper courtyard and passed through the gates of the palace.

The servant, who had been waiting silently, held out an arm in the direction of a handsome building adjacent to the palace. "If you and your folk will please follow me, my lady."

They were given a handsome suite of rooms on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard and the square below. The mountains cast long shadows across the walls, and ivy twined around all the windowsills. Anthelísse was set up in the largest and grandest rooms, with each of her followers being given their own private quarters either along the same hall or one floor above. Aislinn, whom had insisted on being housed at her lady's immediate disposal came to help Anthelísse unpack and get settled.

"What think you of the Greenwood so far, Aislinn?" Anthelísse asked as she unfolded a set of sleeping robes and hung them in the spacious wardrobe.

"Me, my lady?" Aislinn paused in emptying out a bag. Years of living in the Noldor military camps had given them the skill of light travel.

"Yes. I brought you and the others here, and I want to know if you stand by your earlier sentiments regarding the Grey Havens."

Aislinn frowned. "Still second-guessing, my lady? I told you before, every one of us came because we wanted to, not out of some misplaced sense of obligation. Besides..." The handmaiden let her sentence hang.

"Besides what?" Anthelísse looked up from undoing her boots.

With a rather wicked grin, Aislinn picked up a gown of dark blue from the bed. "I speak not only for myself when I say that we wouldn't miss watching yourself and Lord Thranduil conduct this elusive mating dance for all the jewels in Arda!"

"Mating dance indeed!" Anthelísse cried, turning a furious shade of red. Pulling off a boot, she flung it rather churlishly at Aislinn. "I hardly think accepting a formal invitation to visit from a Sindarin monarch constitutes such a thing!"

Well used to earning such outbursts, Aislinn ducked the book easily. Completely unfazed, she slung the gown over her arm and pointed to the ornately carved dressing screen.

"One of these days I shall have to put a stop to your constant over-stepping, Aislinn." Anthelísse hissed as she succeeded in dislodging the other boot and stretching her long toes. Rather than argue with her handmaiden though, she flounced behind the screen and started stripping off riding gear.

"I eagerly anticipate the attempt, my lady." Aislin replied dryly. "You are far too sensitive to my jesting as far as Lord Thranduil goes. Eru knows, you of all people have earned a little personal happiness. You will forgive me if I intend to get my share of amusement from such a thing if it comes to pass."

"I ought to have left you in Nargothrond with my sister." Growled Anthelísse as well-worn leggings and tunic were discarded and hung to one side.

"Alas for the orcs if you had."

"Hubris always has been your favorite flaw." Anthelísse reached out and grabbed the gown from Aislinn and began to step into it. Pausing, she spoke from behind the screen in a more subdued tone. "That is two of the three children of Orodreth now fallen to the Halls of Mandos; first my sister Finduilas after the fall of Nargothrond, and now Gil-Galad at the hands of Sauron. What if the Vala of those grey halls seeks to claim all three of us? I cannot help but feel that there is some doom upon me, that I will never sail from the Havens to Valinor."

"Do not say such things!" Aislinn darted behind the screen to join Anthelísse, her dark eyes flashing. "Whatever would give you such a dark idea?"

Anthelísse shrugged, turning around to allow Aislinn to lace up her gown from behind. "I cannot say. Ever since the Battle of the Last Alliance, there has been a shadow growing upon my mind. This place feels welcoming to me, and yet there is a heavy feeling of fate that has followed me and grown as we drew near."

For a moment Aislinn said nothing, her deft hands flying at the blue velvet ties. Then with a sigh she laid her hands upon her friend's shoulders. "Perhaps it is still the pall of the battle hanging upon you. It affects us all, my lady. Forget the war Anthelísse, that time is over now and the enemy is gone."

"Since when has darkness ever truly been gone from the world?" Anthelísse remarked, stepping out from behind the screen and pulling up a seat at the vanity. Her long golden hair was reasonably clean, but more than a little tangled.

Together she and Aislinn managed to brush out the knots and arrange her hair with a net of sapphires they had brought in her luggage. By the time Aislinn pronounced Anthelísse ready for dinner, a servant was already waiting by the door.

The servant led Anthelísse out from the guest apartments to cross the upper palace courtyard. The first stars were beginning to twinkle beyond the mountains, and pale lanterns lent a white-gold glow to Emyn Duir. The giant bronze doors of the palace opened without a sound before them, revealing a soaring entrance hall with vaulted ceilings. Beautiful tapestries covered the walls that they passed, mostly depicting scenes of forest wildlife and stars.

When they reached the Upper Halls they passed down a long hallway at the end of which stood a pair of oaken doors. The servant knocked, and received an answer of 'Enter' from within. The doors fell open before her, and Anthelísse drew herself up to full height before entering the royal dining hall.

At the head of a long table of polished dark wood sat Thranduil, a golden circlet set upon his brow. Queen Nellas sat to his left at the table, and all around were arrayed a number of elves whose garb and posture clearly denoted noble status. A chair sat open to Thranduil's right, which the young king offered to Anthelísse with a gesture.

"Lady Anthelísse, I am so glad that you could join us this evening." Thranduil spoke formally, but smiled at her. He looked worn and tired, and next to him his mother looked equally drained. There were no other smiles on any of the other elves present, although many nodded politely.

Gathering herself for what was shaping up to be a state dinner, Anthelísse crossed the room and took the offered seat.

"Thank you for your kind invitation King Thranduil. After a long day of riding I am looking forward to enjoying the skill of your kitchens."

As she sat, Anthelísse was aware of the many sets of eyes upon her. Her golden head would have stood out amidst the white-blonde Sindarin elves even if the blue of her gown with its silver embroidered stars did not practically scream 'Noldor'. Somehow she imagined she was the first of her kin to visit the Greenwood in a number of years. After the monumental losses suffered by the Woodland Realm in the Last Alliance, Anthelísse doubted anyone other than Thranduil was significantly glad to have her here.

Very well, politics it was.

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*Na lû e-govaned vîn = Until we meet again


	11. Chapter 11 - A Thorny Reception

**Anthelisse is up against the inner political circles of the Woodland Realm in this chapter, over a lovely state dinner. XP One does not simply snark at Gil-Galad's sister though! **

**You can find me on Facebook at 'GreenScholar Tales'**

Anthelísse took the offered chair at Thranduil's right and was seated. A servant quickly stepped forward to fill the silver chalice at her place with a thick red wine, the alcohol content of which she could smell even at length. The other elves seated around the long table each likewise had a full goblet, but not a single one looked light-headed in the slightest. Quite the opposite in fact; the general atmosphere in the room was grim and somber.

"I trust the accommodations are to your liking?" Thranduil asked, a hint of the eager-to-please young ellon she had known on the road shining through.

"Yes my lord, quite." Anthelísse said, picking up the wine goblet and hovering it beneath her nose. The powerful fumes nearly prompted her to set it back down, but she caught a look from Queen Nellas. It seemed that she was being watched all about the table. Steeling herself, Anthelísse took a sip with a straight face.

"The vintages of Dorwinion." A tall elf with most unusual, mismatched eyes said from two seats down. "Most visitors find it entirely too strong for their liking. What do you think, Lady Anthelísse?"

Opting to forgo breathing rather than splutter like a drowning victim, Anthelísse nodded slowly as the wine burned its way down her throat.

"Tharnor, our Master of Coin." Said Thranduil, gestured to the elf with grey and brown eyes by way of an introduction.

Finally recovering her voice, Anthelísse greeted Tharnor politely. "Well met. The Dorwinion has a heady taste to be sure, and is no doubt capable of making impressions of its own."

It was a very subtle jibe, but perhaps even a bit too much for a first meeting with the inner circles of the Woodland Realm. A few around the table chuckled, including Thranduil and Queen Nellas. Deciding not to push her luck though, Anthelísse set the goblet back down.

Thranduil went around the table and introduced his other councilors one by one. There was Daerchon, the Master of Words, responsible for managing the libraries and all ministerial documents, as well as Erchelil, the Mistress of Gardens who oversaw the care and tending of all things growing in Emyn Duir. By the time Thranduil reached Daeris, the Mistress of the Larders, Anthelísse was having to work hard to keep all names, faces and titles straight.

"So tell me, Lady Anthelísse, what shall be the fate of the Noldor in Arda now that the High King has fallen?" Tharnor asked, lifting his own goblet of Dorwinion and drinking smoothly. "I hear that King Thranduil introduced you as High Queen to the Lady Nellas." The elf lord eyed her dispassionately, a flinty edge to his smile.

Bristling slightly, Anthelísse did not return Thranduil's quick sideways glance. The young king colored, realizing that he may have miss-stepped in his desire to make a good introduction of her to his mother.

"Your king was very kind to say as much." Anthelísse replied. "However, though I may be Gil-Galad's heir in Middle-Earth, too few of our folk remain to justify my claiming the title. The majority of our folk now reside either in the Halls of Mandos or upon the shores of Valinor. Perhaps they shall choose a new king from among the Vanyar, or perhaps my brother shall retain the kingship upon his release from Mandos."

"So you lay no claim upon leadership of the Noldor then?" Queen Nellas asked, sounding slightly surprised. The Queen Mother's dark green eyes glittered slightly in the low light of the dining room, watching Anthelísse from beneath her circlet.

"No. I released my remaining people from any charge of fidelity to me after the Battle of the Last Alliance. Those who have accompanied me here did so of their own free will."

"Interesting…" said Tharnor. The Master of Coin's pale hair made his eyes stand out like two unpaired marbles in his face.

"On the topic of rulers and crowns…" Maechenel, the Master of Ceremony set his elbows on the tabletop and placed his fingertips together. "We have yet to discuss a proper coronation for you, my lord Thranduil."

Thranduil visibly cringed, and Anthelísse was reasonably sure she saw Nellas's hip shift, as though she had positioned her foot atop her son's beneath the table. Recovering himself, Thranduil took a drink of wine before answering.

"Perhaps, a mourning period first? After all, everyone in the city has suffered grievous losses. Now may not be the best time for such a thing?"

Maechenel's mahogany eyebrows practically flew together. Peering at Thranduil over his fingertips, the Master of Ceremony made clear his displeasure with the suggestion with his expression.

"With all due respect my lord, now may be the best time for something in the way of a celebration. Our people have suffered greatly, yes. But I'm sure even the Silvan elves can agree that this should also be a time for joy. The enemy is defeated, never to rise again we hope. We ought to bring some happiness back into the hearts of our folk with much feasting and merry-making!"

Anthelísse personally disagreed, but held her peace. The Noldor were a race well used to hardship and sorrow, and perhaps less prone to combating such things with celebration. Still, from what she knew of the Silvan elves she supposed Maechenel had some grounding in his arguments.

"Speaking from the heart of my own loss, I can hardly imagine anyone being much interested in making merry today, tomorrow or even the day after that." Thranduil said, looking down.

Anthelísse suddenly envisioned Oropher seated in the very chair where his son now sat. As if it were happening right at that very moment, she saw the king talking easily with his councillors, Nellas at his right and a smile upon his face. Oropher was taller than Thranduil, broader in the shoulder and all around a more powerful presence. Then the vision passed, and once again Anthelísse beheld the new king, trying so very hard to fill the enormous shoes that had been thrust upon him while still mourning his father.

"Perhaps, Lord Maechenel, a compromise?" The queen was saying. "Why not wait two weeks at the least, and then hold this coronation ceremony you seem so eager to plan? By that time the folk of Emyn Duir will have had time to compose themselves, and you will be able to ensure every detail of the proceedings is just so."

Clearly something had been said right here; Maechenel flushed and smiled, while Thranduil looked immensely relieved.

"An excellent idea, Your Grace." The Master of Ceremonies demurred, guest lists and meal plans practically flying behind his eyes.

"My lord?" A servant spoke from a side door where he had entered. "Dinner is ready, at your pleasure."

"Thank you Galion, we are ready now." Thranduil said, waving the elf forward. Everyone around the table seemed happy enough to turn talk toward plans for a coronation, with Maechenel cheerfully taking suggestions and amending them. Thranduil and Nellas sat in silence as their dishes of roast pheasant were set before them, and Anthelísse couldn't help but feel slightly uncomfortable. Apart from Thranduil she knew no one there, and it seemed clear enough that the nobility of Emyn Duir were not particularly excited to include her in the conversation.

After dinner, it wasn't long before Thranduil stood and officially dismissed everyone. Gratefully, Anthelísse rose and took her leave of the table. She was used to the mire that was politics; the Noldor were not without their own inner circles. Normally though as Gil-Galad's sister she was used to enjoying much more in the way of welcome and esteem. Leaving the room came with a distinct sense of relief.

She hadn't gotten but a dozen paces down the palace hallway though before she heard a voice call after her.

"Lady Anthelísse!"

Pausing, Anthelísse winced and turned to look back. Thranduil was walking swiftly after her, the doors to the dinner hall still ajar behind him.

"Yes, Lord Thranduil?"

Thranduil paused, seeming taken aback by the stiff, formal tone in her voice. "I...I do apologize if the welcome was less than warm. I've lived here since I was but an elfling, and we have not had many guests in all that time. I think the wars have only made everyone all the more suspicious of outsiders."

"Particularly of the Noldor variety?" Anthelísse asked, perhaps a bit more sharply than she had intended. "I noticed your Master of Coin was quick to probe my intentions regarding my sway over the Eldar."

Thranduil looked abashed. "If it helps at all, I do not harbour any suspicions about your intentions whatsoever, Lady Anthelísse. You came here in good faith as my guest, and I wish I could convince my councillors to honor that."

"You are king now, coronation or no, Lord Thranduil." Anthelísse said, remembering her vision of Oropher seated in stark contrast to his son. "If you do not takes the reins of this kingdom, then I fear others will do it for you."

"You suggest I would be usurped?" Thranduil asked, fear flickering in his eyes as though she had just spoken his darkest fears.

"No!" Anthelísse exclaimed. "Nothing of the sort! I..." she had to pause to choose her words. "I am concerned though that if you do not assume the mantle of king both publically and in your heart, you will lack the faith of your people in years to come."

Thranduil glanced to the side where a painting hung in the pale golden lamplight. It looked like a meeting of two peoples, one side clad in woodland guard and dark of hair, with the other side in silvery regalia and heads of shining gold. At the head of the Sindarin party a king strode forward on his canvas to greet the Silvans; Oropher.

Finally, Thranduil sighed. "You are right, Lady Anthelísse, and I know it. I cannot help but believe though that if I take up my father's crown, it is admitting that he really is gone."

_'Perhaps that is why I refuse to take up my brother's mantle too.'_ Anthelísse thought briefly to herself in a flooring private admission. It was a revelation too private even to share with Aislinn later on back in her chambers.

At the end of the hall, the others were beginning to disperse from the dining hall in small groups or alone. Anthelísse spotted Queen Nellas over Thranduil's shoulder, watching her son's back intently. Whether Thranduil sensed her gaze of not, he suddenly straightened.

"I was wondering, Lady Anthelísse, now that you're settled...if you might like to have a tour of the city tomorrow? I suppose I will be kept busy most of the day, but seeing as you're my guest I'm sure nobody would begrudge me the time to be your guide. That is, if you wish me too?"

Warmed by the questioning, expectant way that Thranduil was waiting for her answer, Anthelísse gave him a small smile.

"I would be glad of such a tour, my lord. When shall I expect to meet you?"

"At dawn? The city is quieter then, but the sunrise over the mountains really does add to the beauty of Emyn Duir."

"Dawn it shall be then." Anthelísse nodded. "Until then, my lord?"

"Until then." Thranduil smiled, then turned away towards the queen. Nellas nodded to Anthelísse, and Anthelísse returned the gesture before departing for her guest apartments.

That night as she lay on the verge of reverie, Anthelísse could not help but turn the details of the day over in her mind. She had witnessed pledges of fealty, wavering of faith and the mistrust of the Woodland nobility. It was enough to turn even an elf's head. Still, on the morn she had a date with King Thranduil. That thought in itself sufficed to guide Anthelísse into a peaceful and calming reverie.


	12. Chapter 12 - No Longer to Wander Alone

**So some of you might know that writing realistic romance is one of my more challenging areas as a writer. I hope that you like this chapter, things really are starting to develop between Thranduil and Anthelisse. ^_^**  
**By the way, I wrote this chapter while listening to a song (particularly the vocals) that I think fits the moment quite well: THRANDUIL AND HIS WIFE - Paradise Awaits  (On Youtube) **

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The next morning Anthelísse roused herself from her reverie well before sunrise. Outside the window a pair of finches were chirruping softly, but otherwise quiet was all around. Even the slight wafting of the curtains at the window was ethereal and dreamlike. Anthelísse had almost forgotten how the shelter of the mountains could calm the air of an entire city. It reminded her of Nargothrond. She and Gil-Galad had left their sister Finduilas there with their father Orodreth, many long years ago.

Rolling over onto her side, Anthelísse watched the branch of the tree outside the balcony quiver with the movement of the little birds. That morning had been very much like this one. Her final parting from her elder sister came back to her and played in her mind's eye.

_"__Be sure to watch out for Gil-Galad, yes?" Finduilas had said after kissing Anthelísse's cheek. Her golden hair had shone brighter than a dragon's hoard, reminding all of the name her betrothed Gwindor had given her; 'Faelivrin' or 'Gleam of the Sun in the Pools of Ivrin'. _

_With a smile, Anthelísse had glanced over to where their brother was bidding their father goodbye. _

_"__I think more likely he'll be watching out for me. At least, that's what Adar is telling him." _

_Finduilas had rolled her eyes in that way which so entranced men both elf-kind and human alike. "Gil may be the eldest, but we both know that you are the smartest. And don't you forget it, little sister!" _

_"__And what about you? Won't you miss us, alone here in the city with just Father for company? Hasn't Gwindor sent back word yet?"_

_Finduilas frowned slightly, but shrugged. "No, we have had no word yet. Perhaps it is best for a time, that I might finally get Father to myself." The princess of Nargothrond laughed. "Between the three of us and a city, Valar only know time alone with him is a precious commodity!" _

_"__I will miss you, Finduilas." Anthelísse said. Having her handmaiden Aislinn accompanying her helped, but Anthelísse wished that her elder sister could join them in Gil-Galad's party too._

_"And I you. You are off to see more of the world though, little sister, and maybe not having me constantly pecking at you will give you room to breathe at last." Stepping back, Finduilas threw Anthelísse a parting wink. "Just take care not to dally too long with any particularly handsome human men. They are fun for a time, but have a way of causing trouble." _

_"__Pah!" Anthelísse exclaimed, waving Finduilas off and mounting the horse awaiting her. "Human men are far too hairy for my taste! __Namárië__!" _

It hadn't been but fifteen years after that when they had received word of the fall of Nargothrond to the forces of Morgoth. Gil-Galad had been beside himself at the death of their father and the capture of their sister. When the missive reached them of Finduilas's murder at the hands of her orc captors, Gil-Galad was nearly inconsolable. Anthelísse had written to their father's old friend Círdan, the shipwright of the Noldor who was at the time living on the Isle of Balar. The elder elf had invited the royal pair and their folk to come and stay with him for a time. The two siblings had rebuilt one another in their time on that island, and piece by piece had regained the will to fight against the rising tide of darkness.

After all the nights spent pouring out the stones of sorrow in their hearts to one another after the deaths of Orodreth and Finduilas, Anthelísse still couldn't really believe that there was now no Gil-Galad to comfort and confide in. She knew that Aislinn was only a matter of yards across the hall, and would come to her side if Anthelísse but spoke her name. There was something different about a brother though, something about an ellon that was vulnerable and stoic both at the same time.

Rising slowly, Anthelísse reached for her robe and draped it around her shoulders. The courtyard outside was starting to lighten; soon it would be dawn. Remembering that King Thranduil had promised to show her the city that morning, Anthelísse sat down at the vanity and started drawing a brush through her long hair.

She had already dressed in a simple yet elegant gown of pale lavender by the time Aislinn caught her in the act. Although they both knew very well that Anthelísse was more than capable of getting herself ready, Aislinn seemed to have taken a personal stake in making her lady look her best at all times lately.

"Honestly Aislinn, we're only just going for a walk about the city this morning, not attending a banquet." Anthelísse said rather tartly while her handmaiden tried to pick out the perfect jewels to go with her dress.

"Yes, but as Lady of the Noldor now you are an ambassador for our folk among these elves." Aislinn replied. "I still think the moonstone necklace suits that shade of purple far better than the plain silver."

A knock at the door interrupted Aislinn's session of playing 'Dress-Up Anthelísse'. Iminyë, one of her other handmaidens stood upon the threshold with a small grin playing at the corner of her lips.

"King Thranduil awaits your pleasure outside, my lady."

"Thank you Iminyë, please tell him I will be down shortly." Anthelísse said, closing the jewelry box before Aislinn could go searching for anything else. "If you try to put one more bauble on me I'm going to make you wear them instead."

"As you wish, my lady." Aislinn said with mock obedience. As Anthelísse rose and headed for the door the raven-haired elleth smirked. "Enjoy your walk, and the city. I want to know all about how it goes later!"

Anthelísse was still muttering about nosey servants when she descended the steps toward the front entrance of the guest quarters. When she saw the sight awaiting her there though, Aislinn's constant teasing went straight from her head.

The sun was only just beginning to rise, and Thranduil was silhouetted in the half-light as he stood beneath the eves of the ash tree outside. Anthelísse had seen the young king almost constantly for weeks as they traveled north after the Battle of Dagorlad, but never before like this. Here in the heart of Emyn Duir, with finches singing overhead and the sunrise making him look like the subject of a courtyard painting, Thranduil was poetry.

When he heard her approach and turned to look at her, Anthelísse felt the most curious feeling, like a cloud was rising within her chest. She had never really _seen _just how expressive Thranduil's face was, how his very spirit was clear for all to see. Or perhaps just for her to see. In all her thousands of years, Anthelísse had never known another moment like that upon seeing another person.

Seeing the bright, intense look in Anthelísse's eyes, Thranduil felt his own heart lift and soar. He had seen his father look at his mother like that, and could even give it a name; love. What he had been feeling even since he first opened his eyes after the battle and thought he saw the sun, now he knew that Anthelísse felt it too.

Then a woodpecker started rat-tat-tatting somewhere nearby, and the moment dissipated like a summer rain. For a moment neither said anything, but just stood looking at one another. Thranduil and Anthelísse both knew though that a bridge had been reached, and crossed.

"My lady, the city of Emyn Duir awaits." Thranduil said. Reaching out a hand to her, he smiled.

Slowly, like one dream-walking, Anthelísse descended the last few steps and placed her hand in his. "Shall we?" she asked, not for a second looking away.

For hours they walked, sometimes Thranduil narrating what they were seeing and the history of this place of that. Most of the time though they wandered the city in silence, content in the unspoken conversation between one spirit and another. Whenever elves stopped to bow and greet the king, Thranduil nodded and smiled, and Anthelísse smiled as well. It was as though they passed through the world within a bubble of their own making, a space in which there was only peace and one another.

By the time they reached the fountains of Emyn Duir, the sun was nearly halfway up the sky. Thranduil knew he was being missed at the palace, but did not care even in the slightest. Queen Nellas had ruled the city well enough in Oropher's absence, and could no doubt do just as well for a few more hours. For now, there was only the sparkling waters of the fountain and the gold of Anthelísse's hair. When she leaned over to trail her fingers across the surface of the water, Thranduil watched the ripples spread outward and outward and outward.

"I went to Mordor, into the very heart of darkness…" he said in wonder, sitting down on the lip of the fountain and gazing up at Anthelísse. "…and I returned with the radiant sun itself."

"I thought that the folk of the Woodland Realm most loved the light of the stars?" Anthelísse asked coyly, sitting down and reaching for Thranduil's hands. Running her thumbs across his knuckles, she marveled at the light but strong feel to them; like the bones of a raptor wrapped in the softest silk.

"Starlight is beautiful." Thranduil agreed. "But the sun gives warmth, gives life. I have seen its face now, and cannot look away."

"I am no Arien." Anthelísse said, naming the spirit who carried the golden lamp of the light of Laurelin across the sky each day. "Just the elf woman you see before you."

"And I am no Telperion." Replied Thranduil, the reflected diamond light of the fountain playing across his silver-blonde hair. "But I will follow you anywhere and everywhere all the same."

"It is lucky then that I followed you, for you are needed here."

"You are needed here just as badly, Anthelísse."

"Oh?"

"By me." Declared Thranduil. "When I awoke from the darkness, you brought me light and gave me the will to heal. My path was dark and hidden in the shadows of the unknown…will you brighten my way now?"

"I do not know the way forward either, Thranduil." Said Anthelísse, looking at him earnestly. "I am just as blind to the future as you."

Thranduil smiled slightly, squeezing her hands. "Then we will wander together. But at least with you, I do not wander in darkness."

Whatever irritation Queen Nellas might have had toward her son and his having made himself scarce for the entire morning faded when she saw him approaching the steps of the palace arm-in-arm with Lady Anthelísse. When she had greeted him the day before after his return from the south, Thranduil had been dimmed, gray, faded. Now with the Lady of the Noldor by his side, Thranduil glowed like sunlight.


	13. Chapter 13 - Coronation

**Hello everybody! Its been ages since the last chapter, and actually you can thank Valerie Baun for reminding me to start LEQ up again (oops). I've been away in Japan on exchange/powering away at my own book series, so life has been a little crazy. XD That being said though, hopefully I can start putting out chapters a bit more regularly now.**

**You can find me on Facebook at; 'GreenScholar Tales' **

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Two weeks passes in the breadth of a heartbeat when you have eternity to live, and by and by the eve of Thranduil's coronation was upon Emyn Duir. Although officially still in mourning, the elven city had a tangible air of anticipation hanging over it even by sunrise on the morn. The formal proceedings would be held in the Great Lower Hall of the palace, followed by a feast organized to perfection by Maechenel, the Master of Ceremonies. For days previous the kitchens had been working overtime to prepare the extensive menu, and Maechenel himself had been overseeing the outfitting of the hall in banners of green and gold.

Anthelísse had been busy as well over the past few days. When not enjoying stolen moments with Thranduil, she devoted much of her time to the gift she planned to give the king on behalf of the Noldor. Aislinn and Iminyë had both been recruited as well, and many a night saw the elven lady and her handmaidens working by candlelight and starlight. A healer Anthelísse may first and foremost have been, but she liked to pretend that the popular Noldo talent for weaving was also within her nimble fingers.

As the sun began to set over the Black Mountains, elves started to gather throughout the city and make their way toward the square and the palace beyond. They came in all their finery, both those of rank and those of common heritage, Silvan and Sindarin alike. The great bronze doors were opened wide to welcome all the Greenwood folk. Within the halls the murmur of voices came to rise and grow like the murmur of a gilded beehive.

The gift had been finished with not a moment to spare, and Aislinn had fairly dashed around the room in the mad rush to see Anthelísse prepared for the coronation. For once Anthelísse did not interrupt her handmaiden at every turn, but submitted cooperatively to all the tugging, brushing and primping that Aislinn could muster. By the time everyone was satisfied, there was barely time for Aislinn to dress herself while Anthelísse rolled the gift and tied it with a satin ribbon.

There was a near-steady stream of elves crossing the fountain courtyard and entering the palace by the time Anthelísse and her entourage stepped out of the guest quarters. Only too happy to join the masses inconspicuously, Anthelísse led the other Noldo elves around the side of the courtyard. From beyond the great threshold there was a spilling of golden light and the music of harps. Subdued though the crowd might be, there was still a definite aura of excitement tingeing the voices and face of all. It was infectious, and Anthelísse found herself drawing in a breath as they stepped under the vaulted palace ceilings.

The Lady of the Noldor did not remain inconspicuous for long. A servant threaded his way expertly through the growing crowd in the entrance hall and bowed before her.

"Lady Anthelísse, my lord Thranduil invites you to join his mother the queen and the other nobles at the front of the Great Hall."

Anthelísse had been expecting something of the sort, but still couldn't help but feel a tiny thrill of anticipation. Such a public placing of her among the inner circles of the Woodland Realm would almost certainly set tongues to wagging. That was, assuming that they weren't already. Although she and Thranduil had not been able to find many opportunities beyond that first walk to wander the city together, no doubt it was no secret that they spent much time in one another's company.

"May I bring one of my attendants?" Anthelísse asked, feeling like she could be generous with Aislinn given how hard she had been working alongside her on Thranduil's gift. There had even been a brief respite from the other elleth's teasing as of late.

"If your ladyship so desires."

With a nod to Aislinn, Anthelísse followed as the servant guided them to a side door in the entrance hall. The other eleven Noldo whom had accompanied her were left to mingle as they pleased.

Anthelísse was shown by an auxiliary passage to the very front of the Great Hall, where a number of carven benches had been set aside from the many other rows. There Anthelísse was not exactly pleased to find a number of councillors from the state dinner, without Thranduil or Queen Nellas. Daeris, the Mistress of Larders at least gave her a polite nod before turning back to conversing with her husband. Tharnor was also there, and the Master of Coin greeted Anthelísse with a bow and a smile that did not reach his mismatched eyes.

"Lady Anthelísse, so good to see you have come to join us. We were beginning to be concerned that the servants would not find you before the ceremony started."

Anthelísse was ready for this. Summoning up a charming smile, she replied; "Not to worry, Lord Tharnor. I would not miss Thranduil's coronation for all the jewels in the Blessed Realm."

Tharnor gestured around the hall. "Nor would any; it seems that Maechenel has outdone himself in preparation for this evening. Are the Noldo traditions regarding royal ascension very different from those of the Sindar?"

It was a jab, and a well placed one at that. Anyone who followed the movements of the Noldor would know that Gil-Galad had not been crowned with great ceremony in a palace but informally upon the Isle of Balar after the fall of Nargothrond and then Gondolin. With their father and sister recently slain, the small proceeding led by Cirdan had been the most that the bereaved siblings could endure at the time.

Aislinn was bristling at her shoulder, and Anthelísse moved quickly to shut this viper-tongued councillor down. "Not so very different, although as with all things they have their time and place."

Parried but not foiled, Tharnor was forced to desist when the tone of the musicians changed. All throughout the Great Hall elves ceased their conversations and took their seats along the ornately carved benches. Torchlight flickered and made the banners' golden borders gleam. The statues of elks and elves in the corners looked almost lifelike in the dancing glow.

At the head of the hall, the queen entered under an archway to the side. Aislinn had gotten Anthelísse into a gown of dark violet velvet and crowned her with a diamond diadem, but even so there was no doubt that Queen Nellas was the most regal lady present. She wore a long trailing black dress and veil to mark her mourning, but that did little to detract from the elegant carriage of Oropher's widow. Nellas walked along the front of the rows to stand at the central of the three aisles. There she stood for a long moment, regarding the Woodland people. The minstrels silenced their harps and flutes, and all awaited the word of the queen.

"People of the Greenwood." Nellas began, speaking in a ringing voice that carried easily throughout the entire hall. "Tonight, we gather to not only crown a king, but to reaffirm the birth of a new era in our realm. Much has been lost, but much will be born anew and grow all the stronger in the days and years to come. Let us do honor to the memory of those brave fallen by making theirs a legacy of peace and prosperity. Just as the summer must die to herald the coming of winter snows, so too does the dark of the year give way to springtide blossoms. Come, arise and bear witness to our new lord and liege. I give you my son, Thranduil Oropherion."

Nellas extended her arm to the back of the hall, and all turned to see the lone elf that now stood at the beginning of the center aisle.

Thranduil was resplendent in all the elegance and finery of elves both Sindarin and Silvan. He wore long robes of silvery silk, a cloak of wine red pinned at his shoulders with sprigs of oak and holly. No circlet graced Thranduil's brow; the crown of the Woodland Realm awaited that honor on a pedestal atop the dias. Likewise the adamantine rod of the king now lay atop Nellas's palms, polished and ready to fit the hands of a new ruler.

A minstrel began to sing unseen in the Sindarin tongue, a strong and unfaltering melody that resounded as Thranduil began his long walk down the aisle. Heads turned slowly from all sides as he passed, following the footsteps of the prince. In but a few moments, Thranduil would cease to be the prince and become the officially recognized King of the Woodland Realm. If he was nervous he showed no sign, but kept his eyes straight ahead on his mother as he approached.

All throughout the ceremony Anthelísse watched Thranduil with near unwavering intentness. Even Aislinn's occasional whispers in her ear did not shake her focus. This was an enormous moment for Thranduil, for Queen Nellas and for the people of Emyn Duir. With every passing hour here Anthelísse felt herself pulled further and further from the call of the Havens. This day only confirmed what the Lady of the Noldor had come to suspect; the Blessed Realm would just have to await her arrival for some time yet. Inexplicably her destiny had become intertwined with this young Sindarin king.

When at last all present in the Great Hall raised their hands to the stars and cried out "Hail to the king!" Anthelísse was among the first to join them. She gladly stood back and gave Nellas a moment to kiss her newly-crowned son before approaching Thranduil on the throne.

"Your Grace." She demurred, sinking to a knee before him. 'High Queen' of the Noldor she may be, but to her mind the gesture was more than appropriate.

"My lady." Thranduil smiled at her, eyes bright despite the weight of his father's crown upon him. Leaning forward, he spoke to her in a voice that only she could hear. "I will find you later this evening, as soon as the formal proceedings of the feast are over. Else-wise I am liable to most grievously offend Maechenel. Forgive me for not being able to join you until then?

"Granted." Anthelísse replied with a smile in return. "It would not do to upset your councilors so early in your reign, my lord. Until then, I await you when you are free to be just Thranduil, and I just Anthelísse."

That was all the words they had time to exchange; already there was a long line of lords and ladies waiting to address their new king. In the meantime, Anthelísse herself had more than a few conversations to field. The initial wariness over the presence of Noldo elves in their city appeared to have worn off, and many wished to speak with her regarding her impressions of Emyn Duir.

More than once throughout the hour to follow though, the King of the Woodland Realm and the Lady of the Noldor could be seen sending one another covert glances and smiles. Sharp eyes marked these exchanges, eyes both approving and disapproving. Two weeks it had been since Gil-Galad's sister had arrived in the city, and two weeks came not even close to winning over some of the more wary among the forest people.


	14. Chapter 14 - Eyes of All

**So. Many. Feels. Only the final chapters of 'Starting Anew' ever brought me this close to getting tears on my keyboard lol. Don't worry though...**

**"...not all tears are an evil." ;-) **

**\- Gandalf **

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The coronation led into a grand feast, and Thranduil and Anthelísse found there was little time to speak to one another. Instead Anthelísse found herself seated between Aislinn and Gurithon at the enormous table that had been assembled in the Great Hall. The gift that she and her handmaidens had made for Thranduil rested beneath the table against her leg, and Anthelísse hoped that an opportunity would present itself to give it to him. In the meantime though, speaking with Gurithon was turning out to be quite enjoyable.

"Has the king shown you the mountain paths yet, Lady Anthelísse?" Gurithon asked as he held up his goblet for a refill of wine. Thranduil's Captain of the Guard displayed the Silvan talent for imbibing seemingly endless quantities of the powerful drink with only minimal effect. Anthelísse for her part was still working away at a first cup.

She shook her head, still recovering from her last sip of wine. "Not yet, but there will no doubt be time for that later."

"So you intend to remain here in Emyn Duir for the foreseeable future? Gurithon inquired.

Anthelísse recalled her lukewarm reception among the councillors of the Woodland Realm and frowned slightly. "Yes, contrary to the hopes of some. I am here by invite of the king, and will stay for however long as his hospitality extends."

Gurithon looked surprised and held up his hands placatingly. "You mistake me Lady Anthelísse! Quite to the contrary, I am glad to hear that you will not be departing any time soon." With a quick glance around, the captain lowered his voice and leaned in closer. "Have you been made to feel unwelcome by any since your arrival?"

It was tempting to grouse about the Sindarin nobility to this good natured Silvan elf, particularly Tharnor and his subtly nasty comments. Anthelísse was the Lady of Noldor though, and not prone to such outbursts. Instead she settled for a quick flicker of her eyes in the direction of Thranduil's Master of Coin.

"No, not truly Gurithon. I thank you though for your kind words."

Ever sharp, Gurithon had not missed Anthelísse's brief glance at Tharnor's back one table over. He was far from surprised; Tharnor had been one of the most vocal opponents of Oropher's decision to answer Gil-Galad's call to battle in the Last Alliance. Gurithon also did not like it overmuch that the Master of Coin chose to fight his battles in the shadows with words rather than with a sword in the open. Still, so long as Tharnor had not openly offended the lady Anthelísse then Gurithon supposed Thranduil had other worries to manage for now.

"Fear not, in time you will come to know more of the hospitality of the Greenwood. Our folk have kept mainly to ourselves for centuries, and especially given recent events you must understand that many do not love strangers. I see how Thranduil watches you though Lady Anthelísse..." When Anthelísse blushed Gurithon smiled. "Oropher was well loved among our people, and so is his son. When it is known how Thranduil has come to care for you, others will surely welcome you in time."

"You see much, Captain." Anthelísse said, pretending she did not see Aislinn beaming over her plate of roast boar beside her.

Gurithon winked. "I see what is plain to be seen, my lady."

When the last course of the feast had been finished and all had pushed away their plates with sighs of contentment, the tables were once again removed from the Great Hall. Now there was a great empty space of gleaming marble floor beneath the vaulted palace ceiling, and the minstrels began to tune their instruments once more. The torchlight cast golden shadows over the expectant faces of all as the king took his seat upon the throne at the head of the hall.

Thranduil gazed slowly out across the sea of elven faces, his eyes traveling from childhood friends to old mentors to new guests. They all looked to him, waiting for his word to begin the final festivities of the evening. Their people had lost so much to war, and yet still the spirit of the elves remained unbroken. The Firstborn of Eru waited with eager feet to dance.

At a wave from Thranduil the harpers and flutists began their melody, a wildly beautiful sound that wove through the crowd and among the banners of the Woodland Realm. Those who wished to watch rather than dance fell back to the perimeter of the hall, there to mingle among the columns drinking goblets of wine and cool water. Anthelísse and Aislinn were among this company, where they regrouped with Iminyë and the other Noldor. The steps of the Silvan and Sindarin dances were unknown to them, and so they contented themselves with discussing their thoughts on the coronation and feast. Aislinn carried Thranduil's gift with her, and Anthelísse wondered if in the end she would have to present it formally before everyone assembled or not at all.

Three songs passed with Anthelísse and her folk watching from the periphery and Thranduil seated upon the throne with Queen Nellas at his side. Then Thranduil's gaze met Anthelísse's from afar and the young king stood. The music immediately faded and all turned their attention to the front.

"We have in our company tonight guests of the lineage of the Noldor, the Lady Anthelísse and her folk." Thranduil extended a hand in her direction, and all eyes in the hall now focussed on them. "Perhaps you would be so kind, my lady, to lead us in one of the dances of your own people?"

A murmur started to travel through the crowd, and it was difficult to tell if the tone was intrigued or disgruntled. Drawing herself up to her full height, Anthelísse inclined her chin in assent. "If you so desire, King Thranduil, two of my people could first demonstrate?" Baelgos, the one minstrel who had accompanied her to the Greenwood took the hint and moved around the hall to join the other musicians. Lute in hand, he quickly set about explaining the tempo and cadence of a popular Noldo ceremonial dance to the woodland elves.

Thranduil glanced at his mother, than a sudden impulsive grin quirked his lips. "If you would be so gracious Lady Anthelísse, perhaps you and I could demonstrate instead? Then all shall have the benefit of seeing an amateur learn the basic steps first off."

A slight ripple of laughter spread among the elves, and Anthelísse relaxed the tense posture she hadn't even realized she had adopted. Nodding, she smiled and stepped forward to the dance floor. Thranduil likewise rose and laid the scepter of the Woodland Realm on his seat. The crowd parted for both from either direction, and Thranduil and Anthelísse found themselves the center of attention alone in the middle of the hall.

Face to face with Thranduil once again Anthelísse found, to her surprise, that she was nervous. With all the eyes of the Woodland Realm upon the two of them, the silence seemed endless. They could only watch one another and wait.

Then, the first slow notes began to flow from the strings of the largest harp. Anthelísse curtsied low to Thranduil, and he caught the cue to bow in return. Then she reached for him and he for her.

Watching the gracefully revolving pair on the dance floor, Nellas was grateful of the dark veil behind which she could mask her face. She wished not for the first or last time that Oropher was at her side. Although, Nellas suspected that she already knew what Oropher would have said about this unlikely couple. After all, it had been he who had bridged the gap between Sindar and Silvan elves when they had first come to this place from Doriath.

The queen looked to Gurithon, Oropher's trusted Captain of the Guard who stood near the bottom of the dias. Rather than concerned or anxious though, Gurithon seemed downright pleased as he watched Anthelísse guiding Thranduil through the complex forms of the Noldorin dance. Surprised, Nellas's puzzlement only grew as she took in more of the crowd.

Rather than disapproving, most faces wore expressions of interest, curiosity or even sly amusement. It only took one look at Thranduil to see just how smitten the young king was. Anthelísse was undeniably beautiful, but it was the way that she was gazing back at Thranduil that seemed to be winning people over. There were still the odd elves in the crowd that were frowning, but they were much fewer and further between than Nellas had imagined. She didn't miss the outright disgust on some faces however, particularly members of the council. Even among the elves there could be found hearts too entwined with the vines of politics to soften themselves to love.

When the song ended, Anthelísse and Thranduil bowed to each other once more. A polite applause went up from the hall, polite yet still enthusiastic. Anthelísse spotted Aislinn lurking at the edge of the dance floor with Thranduil's gift in her hands, and knew that now was the time.

"Come with me." She murmured, reaching out a hand as the next song began and others began to join in the dance. Thranduil was only too happy to comply, and as they passed on their way to one of the side halls Aislinn passed the precious scroll off to Anthelísse.

Ducking down a quieter passage out of sight of those still in the Great Hall, Anthelísse held up the rolled tapestry between them.

"I have a gift for you." she said. "To commemorate your coronation as king of the Woodland Realm."

Thranduil's eyes were bright as he accepted the tapestry. "I do not even need to see it yet to know I will treasure it always, Anthelísse."

"See it anyways, for a tapestry is no good if it remains tied." Anthelísse replied with a soft laugh.

Obediently Thranduil undid the ribbon that held it shut and began to unfurl the woven scene. The more he saw as opened, the more his voice caught and stuck in his throat.

It was done in a similar style to the tapestry Anthelísse had observed while leaving the council chambers two weeks ago. The scene was one of a heroic charge, bordered in shimmering plaits and lit by the light of a golden-threaded sun peeking through dark clouds. There in the weft Oropher lived again, leading his army of Silvan and Sindarin elves into battle before the Black Gate.

There was no trace of cynicism or tragedy in the scene Anthelísse and her handmaidens had woven, only admiration for a proud elf king and his brave warriors. Oropher held his sword high, his mouth open in an echoing battle cry as they charged to meet the forces of Sauron. Thranduil was there too at his father's side, as were Gurithon and Amdír, king of the elves of Lórien. They were all immortalized together in that tapestry, brave and true and unbowed.

Anthelísse waited and watched as Thranduil's face betrayed a thousand emotions all at once. She had been unsure if perhaps recreating such a scene would bring too many raw and painful feelings to the surface. Once her fingers had started working though, there was no stopping that fateful charge from making its way onto the canvas. It had almost felt like Oropher himself was there as they worked, insisting on sending this final message to his son through Anthelísse. The king had died a hero's death, fighting against the armies of darkness and saving his child, and he was at peace.

When Thranduil finally pulled himself together enough to speak, he couldn't find the words to even begin expressing what was in his heart. This was a moment for which there were no words. Instead, the tapestry still clutched in his hand, Thranduil opened his arms to Anthelísse and crushed her in an embrace that contained all the emotions any elf could ever hold.

Beyond in the Great Hall the elves of the Woodland Realm danced, and above the palace roof the stars shone overhead. And somewhere even further beyond the stars, Oropher smiled.


	15. Chapter 15 - Woodland Spirit

**Hello all! I have decided to try to put a new LEQ chapter out every weekend. Hopefully that will bring some regularity both to you and to me lol. This one is a bit shorter, but fear not; I've been cooking up many many many plot ideas for later on that I think you'll all love. *cough*babyLegolas*cough* ;-) **

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Hooves only touching down for an instant amid the fallen leaves between bounds, a stag darted through the forest. The autumn sunlight cast its coat in a reddish glow, the better for the hunters to sight him as they pursued. This chase had been ongoing now since midday; the clever deer knew the paths of its woodland home well. The elves of the realm were unparalleled in the woodcraft art of tracking though, and even the stag knew that this hunt was fast drawing to a close. In the end its life would be given to nourish others, as the circle of life has played out since the dawning of the world.

Aware that the stag was tiring, Gurithon ran easily along the lower limbs of the trees overhead. This was the time-honoured method of hunting with a royal party; scouts would follow their quarry through the trees. When the time was right they would drop down in front of the weary creature, turning it back toward the waiting bows of those who went mounted behind. It was always ensured that the kill was clean and swift; one true-shot arrow.

When he was the prince, Thranduil would have gone ahead with Gurithon and the other Silvan elves. More than once he remembered even darting out from the trees to touch the flank of a stag as it ran past. Now he rode at the head of the party on horseback, following the hunt along narrow game trails. With him were a number of Sindarin nobles, as well as Anthelísse and a few of her followers.

Anthelísse had been in Emyn Duir for near three months now. The fledging courtship between the Lady of the Noldor and the King of the Woodland Realm was by far the worst-kept secret in the forest. The two were seen in company with one another nearly as often as they were seen individually. There seemed to be subtle signs as well that Lady Anthelísse had no intention of departing any time soon. Gil-Galad's sister had recently taken up learning the Silvan language, much to the approval of the native population of the Greenwood. She even wore a gown and cloak in shades of green and brown today, although it was more for the practicality of a hunt than making political statements.

Ducking a low-hanging branch easily, Anthelísse let her horse have its head to follow the thin track. The forest floor was uneven and treacherous going in some places, but animals born and bred to the Greenwood could navigate it well enough without help. Still, it was not ideal for keeping on the tail of so lithe a creature as a stag.

A rustle of leaves overhead brought Thranduil's head snapping up. The elf who danced along the branch was so nimble that Thranduil needed only to slow his horse's pace slightly to speak with her.

"How far ahead, Baraniel?"

The scout's dark braided hair whipped as she leapt over a gap between trees. "Not far Aran-nin, the stag passed this way not one minute ago." She gestured through the autumnal forest. "I've never seen one so large, nor so strong. He runs now with as much endurance as he did several hours ago."

"A worthy challenge for the supper table, my lord." The servant at Thranduil's side piped up. Galion was young, nearly as young as the king himself. His earnest good nature made him a popular aide with Thranduil.

"Perhaps the stag may yet triumph over the Mabon feast." Anthelísse suggested, smiling in amusement at the thought. According to Queen Nellas it was tradition to always serve roast venison hunted by the king himself at the harvest celebration each fall. Although she sympathized with Thranduil's unspoken wish to prove himself by succeeding in his first hunt as king, Anthelísse also had more than a little empathy for the stag.

"It would not be the first or the last time." Nellas commented, drawing a curious look from Anthelísse. When even Thranduil glanced back over his shoulder despite himself, she elaborated. "Oropher once attempted to hunt one of the elusive silver deer from the deepest reaches of the forest. We dined on roast boar that year."

Comfortable, even casual references to Thranduil's father were slowly becoming easier for the members of the royal household. The tapestry that Anthelísse had woven now hung in a place of honour in the Great Lower Hall. When Nellas had seen it, she had begun warming to the Noldo elf as never before. She and Anthelísse now enjoyed an occasional walk together in the mountainside gardens of Emyn Duir. Anthelísse got the sense that Nellas even understood her experiences as a stranger in a strange land. After all, she and Oropher had likely been in much the same position when first they arrived in the Woodland Realm from Doriath.

With Thranduil looking visibly less anxious after the admission from Nellas of Oropher's unsuccessful hunt, they rode on following the scout's lead. Their sharp elven ears could very nearly hear the hoof beats of the stag. Hands began to tighten on bows and wander toward quivers; it would be very soon now. Anthelísse kept the small kit she had prepared before leaving close at hand. Hunting could be a dangerous endeavour. It was more so for humans who lacked a deeper understanding of the natural world, but even elves could suffer from wounds received at the end of a rack of antlers.

A sharp whistle cut the air from ahead, ringing and magnifying as it bounced along the tree trunks. This was the signal from Gurithon and the others; the stag had turned and was running toward them. There came a thundering through the underbrush nearly as loud as if an entire herd was bearing their direction. Thranduil fitted an arrow to his bow in one swift motion, and Anthelísse's sharp eye caught the calming intake of breath he drew. She likewise reined up her horse slightly to the side of the path, both for safety and to provide a narrowing barrier toward the hunters.

When the stag did come bounding forth onto the path, even Nellas gasped aloud. It was the largest forest animal any of them had ever seen. With an antler rack nearly as wide as two elves laid head to toe, this male could have battled a mountain bear and possibly won. Thranduil hesitated, his bow up and drawn but the arrow still notched.

The stag stood perfectly still on the path, its tall breast heaving and its flanks slick with sweat. Anthelísse thought she had never beheld such a magnificent display of wild beauty. This was a beast that would have run in the company of Oromë, Huntsman of the Valar in olden days of Arda. Even its eyes, still and deep as black pools rested with a preternatural intelligence on the young king.

"Aran-nin, will you not take the shot?" whispered Baraniel, the scout who had reported on the stag's movements earlier. She and the other elven scouts perched unmoving all around in the trees.

Anthelísse slowly met Thranduil's eyes. His bow was still drawn, but she could see in his expression the same reticence to kill such an awe-inspiring creature that she felt. The elves never hunted what they did not intend to use in the fullest, there was no waste to their harvests. Even so, there was something eldritch about this stag that defied any desire to follow through on tradition.

Even in the face of disbelieving stares from some of the others, Thranduil relaxed his bowstring and lowered the arrow. The stag remained staring at him for a moment longer, then turned and disappeared away into the forest. Its russet coat flickered in the lowering sunlight before being swallowed by the shadows.

"You let him go, my lord?" Even Galion sounded somewhat disbelieving.

Thranduil nodded, still watching the place where the stag had vanished. "His life is not mine to take." He said softly but with conviction. "I felt I met a wiser spirit, and owed it due respect."

While the others muttered amongst themselves about the failed hunt, Anthelísse sidled her horse up alongside Thranduil's.

"It takes wisdom to recognize wisdom, meleth-nin." She whispered to him.

Whether it was Anthelísse's words of praise or her first use of the Sindarin words for 'my beloved', Thranduil seemed utterly at peace with his decision the entire rest of the way back to Emyn Duir. When a roast boar was served later that week at the Mabon feast, no one enjoyed each mouthful near so much as the king.


	16. Chapter 16 - The Dowager Queen

**Hello all! As promised, your weekly LEQ update. :-) I quite like writing Nellas; as 'Children of Hurin' readers can tell she's changed quite a bit since her days in the woods of Doriath. She's not a shy elf-maid anymore, and the story of how Oropher won her trust and finally her love is worthy of a tale all its own. I think she makes a good mentor to Anthelísse...for once a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law who actually get along lol!**

**You can find me on Facebook at; 'GreenScholar Tales' **

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Winter lay over Emyn Duir like a sparkling veil, turning the water in the fountains to cold diamond and blanketing the rooftops with frost. Down in the forest there was little snow, although all but the mighty pines had shed their leaves to the woodland floor. Higher up into the arms of the Black Mountains where the city lay snowflakes fell regularly. Whenever one went out of doors they could see their breath hanging suspended before them in tiny clouds.

It was on crisp mornings like this that Anthelísse often passed the time by conversing with Queen Nellas. As Thranduil grew wiser and more confident in his role as king, Nellas little by little had been relinquishing royal duties to his keeping. The more time Anthelísse spent in Emyn Duir, the more she saw the great benefit in this gradual shifting of power from mother to son. Had Thranduil returned from Mordor to have the entire weight of the Woodland Realm thrust upon his unready shoulders, things more likely than not would have gone poorly. With the queen measuring his abilities and handing over responsibility only when Thranduil proved himself capable, Nellas had in Anthelísse's estimation ensured his successful accession.

As much as Thranduil's increasing powers as king meant that he was coming into his own, it also meant that he had less leisure time to spend with Anthelísse. When Anthelísse had been at her brother Gil-Galad's side, they had shared the burdens of leadership of the Noldor. Here among Sindarin and Silvan elves though Anthelísse had no place in governance. Instead she had to content herself with listening and learning both from the queen and from afar.

Seated in the palace solar, Anthelísse was thoroughly neglecting the task of embroidering a pair of gloves. Instead she was a captive audience for Nellas, who was at the time describing the intricacies of meshing Sindarin governance with the customs of the native Silvans. It was a complex and delicate subject, one that often left Anthelísse wondering how it was that the two peoples could co-exist together so well. Any foolish human would be quick to say that surely the races of elves cannot be too different from one another. Any elf could confidently say otherwise.

Aislinn and Iminyë were far less interested in the topic. The two handmaidens sat a short distance away, their black and gold tresses almost interweaving as they leaned their heads together to gossip. A Sindarin elf with silvery hair was eyeing their whispered conversation with interest. Aislinn noticed the extra pair of ears and scooted aside on the carved bench to make room. Soon elf maids both Noldo and Sindar alike were chattering away like a tree full of sparrows. And, they were doing so in the Sindarin tongue.

Anthelísse noticed this exchange and smiled to herself. She was happy to see that the loyal Noldor who had followed her here were finding places for themselves within the court of Emyn Duir. Baeglos, the minstrel who had performed at Thranduil's coronation now regularly rehearsed with the other musicians of the court. Anthelísse mused that if they were to remain here long enough, eventually her people would even begin to entwine their lives with the folk of this land.

"Anthelísse? You are not listening."

Nellas's comment was a statement rather than a question. Chagrined, Anthelísse returned her attention to the rather bemused looking elf woman whose slim knitting needles flew even as her green eyes looked elsewhere.

"Ai, I am sorry Lady Nellas. I was thinking on the future of those who accompanied me here."

Nellas arched an eyebrow. "It seems to me that your folk are settled in nicely. What of yourself, Anthelísse?"

Anthelísse considered her words before answering. "I am greatly enjoying my time here, and cannot have asked to be hosted more graciously by your people."

"But you are missing something, perhaps an old authority that you used to enjoy?" Nellas added astutely, her needles clicking away with a speed and precision no mortal could have managed.

"Oh no, I..."

The queen cut Anthelísse off with a narrow glance. "It cannot be easy, to have gone from a position of leadership, honor and trust among the Noldor to be seemingly relegated to nothing more than a houseguest. Albeit a guest with the special affections of a certain king." Nellas added the last comment with a half smile at her. "That being said, why do you suppose that I have been speaking to you as such length about the politics of this realm?"

"I had supposed you wished me to understand more of your people, and also that you and I share an interest in such things."

Nellas frowned slightly, setting the blanket which she was working on to the side.

"Anthelísse, daughter of Orodreth, do not dance around a future that you and I both know is becoming a more real possibility with every passing day that you remain here. It has been near seven and a half years since first you came to us after the final battle of the Last Alliance. If you were merely paying a visit out of courtesy on your way to the Havens, you would not have encouraged your folk to integrate as they are." Nellas leaned forward in her chair, wintery light falling through the frosted glass windows and giving her face a silver sheen. "Also, if you really intended to leave you would not be reciprocating my son's affections. As a mother I watch over my son both for my part and Oropher's. I do not take you to be the sort of elf to toy with another's affections for short-term amusement. Are you, Lady Anthelísse?"

Anthelísse shook her head vehemently. "No! Certainly I would never!" Her denial was loud enough to make Aislinn's head swivel in her direction like an alarmed owl.

"Then I rest my case." Nellas nodded, apparently satisfied. "If the feelings you and Thranduil have planted and nurtured between yourselves continue to grow on their apparent course, then one day you may very well find yourself in a political position once again. To be a queen is no small thing, much less one of such a nation as the Woodland Realm. Until such time, I intend to impart as much as I have learned in my time here to you." A wry smile suddenly lifted the older elf's lips. "With councillors such as our Master of Coin, you will need every word of wisdom I can give to you."

Anthelísse did not know whether to agree, protest or blush. Instead she settled on a nod of acquiescence. She caught sight of a subtle shade, a tinge of grey beneath the queen's eyes and frowned.

"Lady Nellas, are you well?" Anthelísse immediately began running through her mental list of all the herbs she had accrued in her medicinal war-chest. Summers and autumns spent on the mountainsides proved quite bountiful for collecting useful plants. Many species grew at the base of the Black Mountains that Anthelísse had never even seen before in all her long years. That being said, elves did not fall ill by any such mundane means as humans.

Nellas leaned back heavily in her seat and reached for her knitting needles once again.

"In body, perhaps. My spirit grows weary though, Anthelísse. I have seen the leaves fall in this forest and the forest of Doriath more times than there are stones in a river. I have seen the end of Beleriand, the death of heroes and the loss of far too many friends. Now that the one whom I loved is gone...for the first time I feel a pull to the Havens and the sea beyond."

Anthelísse did not know what to say. She was immediately concerned that the wise and indomitable queen was fading from grief. When she said as much, Nellas chuckled softly.

"Rest assured, I am no such delicate flower as to wilt just yet. The time is not now, but my heart tells me there are only a few tasks yet remaining to me upon these shores."

For a time they worked in silence, the winter sunlight illuminating the marble floor and making the carven wall panels come to life. Aislinn, Iminyë and their new friend giggled occasionally, and soon all the other elleths in the room were engaged in the discussion. Anthelísse even allowed herself to be drawn into the chatter, nodding absently here and there.

A knock at the door brought everyone's attention around, and after a moment Nellas bid them enter. It was Galion, a rolled message held lightly in his hands.

"Begging your pardon Your Majesty, ladies, but a message has arrived for the Lady Anthelísse." The young servant offered the scroll forward, his large brown eyes curious. "It arrived not one hour ago on the leg of a messenger bird."

Rising, Anthelísse set aside her embroidery and went to claim the message. As soon as she touched the parchment she caught sight of the seal of Imladris pressed into wax.

"If you will excuse me Lady Nellas." Anthelísse absented herself from the solar, thanking Galion on the way out. She found a quiet hallway and stood reading beside the window. When she finished, a smile was upon Anthelísse's face as she went to seek the king.

It seemed they had an invitation to call upon Lord Elrond of Rivendell.


	17. Chapter 17 - A Fool in Love

**Time for our weekly chapter! ^_^ You may recall from last weekend that Elrond invited Thranduil and Anthelísse to visit him in Imladris. How will this turn out? Unfortunately, Thranduil doesn't play nicely with new kids in the sandbox... Especially when he's jealous.**

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When Thranduil heard of Lord Elrond' invitation to visit the hidden valley of Imladris, he was hesitant at first. His memories of the half-elven lord were largely overshadowed by the pall of death and battle. The enthusiasm in Anthelísse's eyes even made Thranduil a bit jealous before he reminded himself that Elrond was a long time friend of both Anthelísse and her brother Gil-Galad.

So it was that Thranduil agreed that a visit to the Last Homely House might be a pleasant interlude from governing the Woodland Realm. Queen Nellas was not opposed to ruling in his stead for a short time when they approached her on the matter. Thus as winter's snows began to recede Thranduil, Anthelísse and their escort rode out from Emyn Duir toward the west.

The Misty Mountains were still treacherous in places, their narrow passes slick with melting ice. Still it was far from impossible for the clever elf-horses to manage. They met no orcs nor goblins on their journey, much to the relief of all. By the time the first blossoms of spring were beginning to open, Thranduil and Anthelísse were riding down the mountain paths onto the rolling foothills beyond.

The way to Imladris was hidden from the eyes of the casual observer, and even proved difficult to spot with their keen elvish vision. Finally Gurithon cried out in discovery, waving the way down onto a winding road. The banners of both the Wooland Realm and the Noldor flew above their party, and Thranduil ordered Gurithon to sound horns to herald their arrival. The twisted ox horn rang long and clear over the valley beyond. By the time they reached a stone bridge over the River Bruinen elves were already gathering all around.

Having been warned of their coming beforehand by a messenger bird from Anthelísse, the lord of Imladris awaited them at the great entrance of the Last Homely House. Elrond looked just as Thranduil remembered him; dark of hair and grey of eye. He greeted them with a smile though, looking far gladder than he ever had in the aftermath of the Last Alliance.

"Hiril Anthelísse, melon-nin." Elrond greeted her as she dismounted. The two elves bowed to one another before clasping hands.

"Elrond." Said Anthelísse. "It is ever so good to see you again, Earendilion."

"May I have the pleasure of welcoming you to Imladris, our haven west of the mountains." Elrond lifted one of Anthelísse's long hands to his lips and brushed a kiss on her knuckles.

Thranduil stood slightly behind, watching this exchange with a growing sense of annoyance. He did not begrudge Elrond greeting Anthelísse first, far from it. The easy familiarity and fondness which he and the Lady of the Noldor seemed to share irked him though.

As if sensing the Greenwood king's angst, Elrond smoothly transitioned his attention from Anthelísse to Thranduil.

"King Thranduil, son of Oropher. Welcome to Imladris, you are both honored and admired here. Our people compose songs of your father's courage in battle and shall sing them through the ages."

He and Thranduil exchanged polite bows as befitted individuals of equal rank. Elrond may not bear the title of 'king', but here in his element it was clear the son of Earendil the Mariner was accorded the same measure of respect. Thranduil kept this in mind despite his previous irritation when he replied.

"You honor us with your invitation, Lord Elrond. The Lady Anthelísse and I are glad to be able to pay a visit to your beautiful home."

It was bold of Thranduil to speak for both himself and Anthelísse, to say the least. A few of the Noldor in her entourage murmured softly among themselves in Quenya. If Anthelísse noticed she let the matter slide.

"My home shall be as yours for so long as you are here." Said Elrond, gesturing to the tall graven stairs behind him. He indicated a noble looking pair of elves who awaited them at the top. The golden light of the sun upon Imladris's roofs was reflected and magnified by the shining tresses of the lady, while the lord who stood at her side was as silvery as the moon.

"Come, I have other guests visiting from Lorien whom I should be very pleased to introduce to you. Lady Galadriel and her husband Lord Celeborn have been with us since last summer, as has their daughter Celebrian."

Throughout the introductions Thranduil continued to watch how Anthelísse and Elrond interacted. The sleeve of her night-blue gown practically brushed the hem of his cloak, so close the two of them stood. Even the arrival of Celebrian and the introduction of the willowy elf maiden did little to distract Thranduil from his growing sour mood. It did not help that he was well aware of just who the Lady Galadriel was. The rumors of her eldritch power, cultivated by years of tutelage under Queen Melian the Maia of Doriath was one of the primary reasons why Oropher had led his followers away from that realm. Thranduil's father had not trusted the golden haired lady with Nenya, one of the three elvish rings of power. The sight of its white jewels winking on Galadriel's finger only curdled Thranduil's thoughts further.

Later after Thranduil, Anthelísse and their followers had been settled in, all gathered around a generously set dining table out on a balcony overlooking the valley. The diamond spray of the waterfall fell nearby; an accompaniment to the sweet music of harps and flutes.

"I am glad to hear that your mother fares well, Hir-Thranduil." Celeborn was saying as the salad course ended. "I was briefly acquainted with Nellas in Doriath and knew that she took that sorrowful business with Turin son of Hurin and Beleg Strongbow badly."

Thranduil nodded shortly, glad that Elrond at least had good taste in wine. "Thank you Lord Celeborn, I will pass your greeting on to her."

"Speaking of greetings, we have a message for you from King Amroth, recently ascended king of Loríen." Galadriel spoke with the unhurried, measured tones of one used to being listened to. "Amdír's son sends you greetings, as well as his hopes that one day soon you shall likewise pay a visit to the Golden Wood. He reminds you of your fathers' respective alliance to one another, and it is his wish that such a link should continue to persist between the thrones of the Greenwood and Loríen."

"I shall bear Amroth's greetings in mind." Replied Thranduil.

From across the ovoid table Anthelísse shot a strange look at Thranduil. She was aware of Oropher's distrust of Lady Galadriel, but was perplexed as to why Thranduil should be behaving so aloof. His noncommittal response to a diplomatic message from King Amdír's son was far from polite.

From her father's side, the Lady Celebrian smiled sweetly. "It would be a joy to show both you and Lady Anthelísse the beautiful sights of the Golden Wood, Lord Thranduil. I do hope you are able to pay us a visit in the future."

"Have you ever been to Lorien, Lord Thranduil?" Elrond asked politely.

"No, I'm afraid I have not."

Elrond smiled. "Then Lady Celebrian's offer to guide you around Lorien is all the more excellent. Anthelísse, you remember the beauty of the mallorn trees by night?"

"Like a dream of the gardens of the Blessed Realm themselves." Anthelísse answered, nodding.

"I remember our moonlit walk there like it was yesterday." Said Elrond.

Thranduil would hear no more. Pushing back his chair so abruptly that its feet made a faint screeching against the marble floor, he stood.

"If you'll excuse me Lord Elrond." He said abruptly. "I could do with some air."

It was a ridiculous excuse, considering that they were dining on an open balcony. It was the best that Thranduil's angry mind could cough forth on short notice though. His stride lengthened by his stiff legs, Thranduil stalked away down the gracefully carved halls.

He had gotten about a dozen meters when Anthelísse's sharp voice brought him to a halt.

"Thranduil! Just what do you think you are doing?"

"What am I doing?" Thranduil turned on his heel, his voice an angry growl so as not to travel back to the balcony where Elrond and the others sat. "I might ask the same of Elrond. The nerve of the Peredhil!"

"What are you talking about Thranduil? Think carefully before you answer..." Anthelísse's blue eyes narrowed dangerous as she approached to stand toe to toe with him. Up close they were very nearly the same height.

"I am talking about how he always places himself so close to you, how he kisses your hand when you meet, how he speaks of your _moonlit walks_ together!" Thranduil spat, his blood boiling and heating his pointed ears. "I am not blind, Anthelísse!"

"There you are wrong." Anthelísse hissed back, her voice carrying and making a nearby servant scurry away nervously. "You are both blind and a fool, Thranduil Oropherion!" Before Thranduil could shout back at her in earnest she cut him off. "Have you not seen what is as plain as the nose on my face?"

"...Seen what?" Thranduil asked despite himself.

"That Elrond is clearly infatuated by the Lady Celebrian, you silly Sindar!"

Thranduil was taken aback, so surprised that his anger started to ebb away unnoticed.

"Truly?" he asked tentatively.

Anthelísse rolled her eyes and threw her hands up to the adorned ceiling of the walkway. "O what lamentable sorrows could have been avoided in this world if hot-headed males could but glimpse through female eyes!" Arms crossed and fingers drumming impatiently, Anthelísse smirked at Thranduil. "If you had not been so occupied with your own invented troubles, you would have seen how Elrond has been hanging off of Celebrian's every word as if they were diamonds from the hands of Eru himself."

"Oh." Thranduil said dumbly, feeling very foolish indeed. Silence reigned supreme between them. Finally he felt the beginnings of a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Do you think I have offended Lord Elrond?"

"Not Elrond." Anthelísse replied, her eyes still narrowed but her tone already softer. "He is the closest thing to a brother yet remaining to me in Arda, and I know that he would be the last to take offense at another's folly. You owe him an apology though; him and Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn."

Now feeling rather ashamed of his earlier outburst, Thranduil looked down at his boots. "It seems I have made a poor diplomatic impression of myself."

With a sigh, Anthelísse slid her arm around his. "Come." She said, steering his back toward the balcony. "Let us go back. Even kings must sometimes make their apologies and be forgiven."


	18. Chapter 18 - Blood on a White Rose

**Another weekend, another chapter. This one was hard for me to write, and you'll find out why shortly. Thranduil and Anthelísse's relationship is taking on new depths, particularly with regard to how it's changing Thranduil as a person. By the time we finish this fan-fiction, I want to really make readers understand just how deeply his wife's loss wounded the King of Mirkwood. Essentially, her death will destroy the best part of him...**

**Enjoy! **

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The rest of Thranduil and Anthelísse's stay in Imladris went off without incident, although there was a brief exchange between the hot-headed young king and an elf lord in the training yard of the barracks. When it came to light that the elf lord in question was in fact Lord Glorfindel formerly of Gondolin, Thranduil found himself yet again having to swallow his pride and make apologies. This time though he at least could find some solace in the fact that Glorfindel also begged Thranduil's forgiveness for losing his own temper.

When it came time three weeks later for Thranduil and Anthelísse to return to the Woodland Realm, there was a tiny bit of relief mingled with the goodbyes all around. Elrond assured them that they were both welcome to return and visit whenever they pleased, and in return Thranduil extended an invitation in kind to the Lord of the Hidden Valley.

Spring was approaching its zenith as Thranduil, Anthelísse and their followers began the ascent into the Misty Mountains once again. The melt had widened the paths and made for somewhat easier going this time over. Still there were many treacherous passes and narrow roads overlooking seemingly endless chasms as they passed.

Unable to sidle up to Thranduil on the single-file ledge, Anthelísse called forward to where he rode near the head of the procession.

"I have been thinking meleth-nin; it's a blessing that you have begun your reign in this age in the company of others such as Elrond and young Amroth."

Thranduil dared not take his eyes off the rocky path, not with the drop being so far down on his left. Clever as she was, he still didn't want to surrender full control over their course to his horse. Instead he settled for calling out and letting the wind carry his words back to Anthelísse.

"Oh, why is that?"

Anthelísse answer had a teasing note to it. "Because if you were pitted against the likes of Finarfin or Thingol in diplomacy, I fear the elf kings of old would eat you alive with that hot head of yours!"

Gurithon snickered from the lead, earning a glare that could have killed directed at his shoulders from Thranduil. Likewise Aislinn and Iminyë giggled on their grey and white horses. It was the plain but unfortunate truth. The king of the Greenwood was not without a retort though.

"What of Fëanor? I daresay the old fox had a temper that burned far hotter than mine, and yet he still managed to lead the Noldor back to Arda from the Blessed Realm."

Disapproval was evident when Anthelísse replied. "Surely you wouldn't want to compare yourself to Fëanor Kin-Slayer? His is hardly a standard to follow."

"True, but you must admit that he had his own sort of intelligence and courage. It was no small feat to convince the Noldor to face exile at the hands of the Valar like that."

Iminyë piped up from behind Anthelísse as they rounded a dizzying corner. The valley floor was so far below that it could hardly be seen beneath the clouds. Wisps of mist clung to the handmaiden with delicate golden curls like a veil.

"But in the end, Fëanor's courage came to naught. He and his sons never reclaimed the Silmarils, and the Halls of Mandos shall be his prison even until such time as the Second Music of the Ainur." Iminyë spoke with great solemnity. "In the end, the will of the Valar wins out over any petty designs we may strive toward."

Thranduil's eyebrows went up. "It takes courage to disagree with a king too, Iminyë. You put great faith in the power of the Valar, don't you?"

"Shouldn't I?" Iminyë replied. "They formed the world by the decree of Eru, and so I think it's only right to give them their just reverence. In the end, we are all in their hands."

Thranduil smiled despite himself. The mountain fog was thickening, and his voice sounded oddly muffled when he spoke.

"Anthelísse, it seems you have a scholar in your entourage. Perhaps a place in the libraries of Emyn Duir with our learned philosophers would be more suited to your tastes, Iminyë?"

A rock shifted and fell from above, sending a landslide of grey earth onto the ledge between Thranduil's horse and Anthelísse's. Her horse reared in startled fear, and Thranduil was forced to canter his own mare forward after Gurithon to avoid further rocks.

Thranduil was about to call back to Anthelísse and the other half of the party when a new sound from above made his blood run cold. Instinctively his hand went to the hilt of his sword.

"Aran-nin, goblins!" One of their guards cried out, pointing.

At least fifty of the vermin were dropping down the near vertical rocky face toward them from above. Their shrieking cries and whoops echoed around them, magnified by the mountain passes. The treacherous creatures must have set off the rock-fall on purpose to separate their party.

"Draw swords!" Thranduil shouted, pulling his own blade from its sheath with a reverberating ring. "Anthelísse!" he called across the choked ledge. "Stay down!"

Whether Anthelísse had heard him or not, Thranduil couldn't know. The rocks blocked the other side of the path from all sight. There were a number of the Greenwood's best warriors back there with her, as well as a number of Anthelísse's own Noldo guards. Not being able to see Anthelísse or reach her terrified Thranduil.

That terror lent a new speed to his sword, a new sense of urgency to his form in battle. Thranduil fought like a cornered wildcat, killing any goblin that got within reach. Gurithon and his other guards barely needed to worry about defending their king; Thranduil had the fight well in hand for his part. The goblins dropped down on them like spiders, and the narrow ledge left the elves very little room to manoeuvre.

It would take more than fifty goblins to kill an elite force of elves though. Thranduil and his guards slaughtered the goblins on their side of the landslide site with ruthless efficiency. One of the younger, less experienced warriors took a nasty slash to the thigh, but apart from that they were mostly uninjured. The last goblin had barely hit the ground before Thranduil was already leaping at the rocks that barred the path.

"Anthelísse!" When the only answer was the muffled sounds of battle, Thranduil rounded on his captain. "Gurithon, we're going over."

The battle-schooled Silvan could have protested, warning against the risks of climbing over freshly fallen rocks. Even a slight change of weight could send the rest of the mountainside sliding over the edge. The burning light in Thranduil's eyes defied risks though, and Gurithon just nodded curtly. With those elves who were still fit for battle behind them, Thranduil and Gurithon clambered lithely up the barricade and over.

The bulk of the goblins had attacked the rear of the party, and the fight still roiled when Thranduil and his warriors leapt down into the fray. With the elves now rejoined, the goblins soon broke and tried to scatter back up the mountainside. Gurithon was fast to react though, and on his command the elves shot down the fleeing vermin.

Dropping his sword, Thranduil turned from the sight and began racing about through the mist.

"Anthelísse, Anthelísse where are you?" he cried out.

"Here, Thranduil!"

Thranduil recognized Anthelísse's voice, and thought he would drop to his knees from relief. Following the sound of her calls, he found her and her followers backed against the wall of the mountain pass. They were disheveled and wide-eyed, but upon seeing Anthelísse safe Thranduil felt his throat close.

Heedless of the black blood spattering his clothes, Thranduil ran straight to Anthelísse and drew her to him in a desperate embrace. The scent of her hair and the feel of her in his arms was bliss.

"Please." He whispered into the crook of her neck. "Please, don't ever leave me."

Anthelísse let him hold her for a minute more, her hand twisted in the back of his hair. Then she murmured "Thranduil, I'm not harmed. Are you alright?"

Reluctantly Thranduil stepped back and held Anthelísse at arm's length. "Yes." He said breathlessly. "Yes I'm alright."

"My lady?"

Aislinn was kneeling a short ways away in the fog, her long black hair unbound and wild. She looked to Anthelísse, then down at the limp figure she cradled on her lap.

Anthelísse went to Aislinn, and Thranduil heard the tears that choked her words.

"Iminyë..."

The handmaiden had been slain by a single blow from a goblin sword. Her eyes stared unseeing, veiled by half-closed lashes. Anthelísse sank to her knees beside Aislinn and joined in a soft, keening lament.

Thranduil looked on, sensing that this grief was not his to share. Instead he did the only thing he could; be there for Anthelísse. He waited quietly to one side as the elf women mourned their murdered sister.

When at last their tearful song fell silent, he approached Anthelísse and laid a hand on her shoulder. She reached out to close Iminyë's eyes, and then leaned back against him.

"Come." Thranduil said softly, looking up to the elves who stood silently around them on the mountainside ledge. "Let us leave this place."

Wordlessly Anthelísse nodded. Three other Noldo from her entourage helped Aislinn to wrap Iminyë's body in their cloaks and tie her onto her horse.

"She will be buried with honour in the Greenwood." Thranduil promised Anthelísse, wrapping a supportive arm around her shoulders. "If that is your people's wish?"

Anthelísse watched Aislinn mount up in front of the pallbearer horse with a pale but composed face. The Greenwood elves checked the bindings once more, ensuring their sorrowful bundle would not be disturbed on the journey. The attentiveness with which they did so comforted Anthelísse.

"Yes...that is our wish." Anthelísse whispered.

"Then it will be so." Promised Thranduil. Still with an arm around Anthelísse, he led her away to her own horse. This golden elf lady had been his light and strength so many times before. Now he vowed to do the same for her.


	19. Chapter 19 - Sun and Moon

**This is a chapter that many of you have been eagerly waiting for! I think it turned out quite well, if a bit loaded (you'll see what I mean lol). Have fun!**

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The elf-city of Emyn Duir was in a state of humming anticipation. Everywhere its folk went about their business with a sense of urgency, as if trying to finish their daily obligations early. Some shops and businesses even hung signs written in flowing _Tengwar _script declaring that they would be closed after midday. Such was always the case whenever the astronomers announced the coming of a solar eclipse.

Being a people very much in love with the movements of celestial bodies, all elves tended to treat such events as major holidays. There would be much feasting and merry-making that evening once the eclipse had passed, and already long tables were being arranged in the forest beyond the city gates. That afternoon though, all activity in Emyn Duir would cease as every gaze turned to the sky.

Anthelísse arose with the dawn and broke her fast on the balcony of her apartments with Aislinn, as was her habit each morning. After leaving Aislinn to join the organizers of that night's revelries, Anthelísse made for the libraries of Emyn Duir. She had been working on a project there alongside Daerchon, the Master of Words.

Shortly after Iminyë's death four years ago, Anthelísse had taken it upon herself to record the entire history of the Noldor's royal houses for the archives of the Woodland Realm. It was a task that she was sure the late handmaiden would have enjoyed, and so now Anthelísse undertook it in her honor. Daerchon proved to be a helpful if somewhat aloof companion, and often she deferred to him in matters of translation. Not only was Anthelísse transcribing everything in the familiar Tengwar figures used by the Sindarin and Quenyan languages alike, but also in the far wilder and stranger script of the Silvan tongue.

Concentrating proved difficult that morning though; the aura of anticipation that had permeated Emyn Duir was palpable even in the quiet of the library. Anthelísse's eyes kept slipping toward the sundial that stood illuminated in a beam of light nearby. She liked the library, with its towering mahogany shelves and echoing silence. Still there were few places that she would less rather be on that particular day. More than once her shifting and foot-dandling drew a reproachful glance from Daerchon, who was leaning so far over an ancient tome nearby that his long hair brushed the pages.

There was a reason for Anthelísse's restlessness though; she and Thranduil had made plans for a rendezvous that afternoon during the eclipse. The day before, the young king had approached her in the palace entryway and invited her to join him at what he called 'the perfect place' to watch the glowing lamps of Arien and Tilion embrace.

Every minute until then seemed an eternity, even to an immortal elf like Anthelísse. Her swan-feather quill hanging in stasis over the parchment, she tried and failed to set her mind to the task of recording history. Finally the Lady of the Noldor gave up and allowed her mind to wander freely.

**OoOoO**

Elsewhere in Emyn Duir, Thranduil found himself similarly preoccupied. Meeting in council with the nobility was proving to be an exercise in tedium; it seemed no one wanted to discuss supply and demand with an eclipse soon upon them. The only one who seemed remotely engaged in the conversation around the table was Tharnor, whose tone became increasingly flinty with each vague response. More than once Queen Nellas had to give Thranduil a subtle nudge under the table to bring him back to the present. He took comfort from the fact that he wasn't the only one so distracted in the room. Even fastidious Maechenel and practical Daeris spoke with less certainty than they might have otherwise.

While listening to the Master of Coin drone on about something regarding the exchange rate of mineral ores, Thranduil felt his mind slipping away to more pleasant subjects. The way Anthelísse's cheeks widened when she smiled, for example. Then of course there was the all-important sound of her voice as she spoke of her family, her plans for the day and the activities of her folk.

"Wouldn't you agree, Aran-nin, that we ought to explore options for securing ore ourselves rather than continuing to deal with the humans?"

Thranduil had missed everything that Tharnor had said. He thanked his lucky stars that the question was detailed enough to give him something to work with. Straightening his shoulders and trying to look alert, he steepled his fingers as Oropher had once habitually done while in council.

"Mining raw ores ourselves will be a difficult and lengthy operation, Tharnor." He said, making up his response on the spot with every word. "Humans are well-enough suited for working underground, while I think everyone here will agree when I say that we are not. Why should we not continue on with the agreements that my father established?"

Erchelil leaned forward in her seat, cutting off Tharnor's incredulous look. "The Master of Coin makes a point though, Aran-nin. The mortals are aware of our reticence to mine the earth ourselves, and will no doubt continue to exploit this with their increased tariffs."

Thranduil could have kissed the soft-spoken Mistress of the Gardens for so clearly spelling out the heart of Tharnor's arguments. With two sentences she had completely brought him up to speed on the entire debate. Smothering a too-revealing smile, he angled his chin regally.

"Yes, but we too offer things in trade that Men cannot possibly secure for themselves. Permission to harvest young trees from the forest's edge for their buildings, for example. If we were to say, ask for appropriate compensation in return for this continued boon, I believe we can easily balance out any gains in coinage that the humans may be making through the sale of ores."

"An eye for an eye, to put it bluntly?" Daeris asked, raising her dark eyebrows. When Thranduil nodded, a murmur of assent went around the table.

When the council adjourned, Nellas caught her son on the way out of the room.

"You were fortunate in there, ion-nin." She said reproachfully. "It does not become a king to be miserly with his attention when it comes to the ruling of his kingdom."

Thranduil blushed, but met Nellas's gaze. "I apologize, Naneth. Today will be a very important day, and it is hard to think of anything but."

"Why, because of the eclipse?"

"You might say that..." Thranduil said with a mysterious note to his smile. When Nellas tried to get more out of him he remained tight-lipped though. Finally she gave up and waved him off.

"Go then Thranduil, go and meet with your golden lady." When Thranduil hesitated, unsure if she was displeased with him, Nellas favoured him with a wry smile. "It would not do to keep Anthelísse waiting."

**OoOoO **

Anthelísse followed the winding path up the mountainside, occasionally glancing up to watch as the sky took on a curious, dream-like haze. The moon and sun were visible side by side now. Very soon, the eclipse would begin.

Thranduil had given her instructions how to find this trail. It escaped through the back of the palace gardens and wandered up onto the mountainside behind Emyn Duir. The higher Anthelísse climbed, the more she could see the woodland city sprawl out below her. It truly did look like a map spread out across the arms of the mountain, trailing away down to the gates and into the forest beyond. The Greenwood unfurled as far as the eye could see in all directions, its treetops waving like a green sea in the breeze.

She found Thranduil waiting for her on the mountainside, seated on a mossy rock that curved like a natural seat. When he saw her, his entire face lit up.

"You found the way here." He said, standing and going to her. Anthelísse stepped into his now-familiar embrace as their lips met.

"Of course I did." She said when their kiss ended. "The trail is well-worn, as you said it would be."

Thranduil smiled. "I have been coming here ever since my father first brought us to the woodland realm. I found this place in my first year living here, and have been coming back time and time again ever since." Taking her hand, he led her back to the mossy seat. "Come, the eclipse is beginning!"

It was a close fit to get them both seated comfortably on the stone. Anthelísse's and Thranduil's legs were pressed so closely together that even through her gown and his leggings they began to go numb. Neither of them minded in the slightest though, and the problem was soon fixed when Anthelísse lifted Thranduil's arm to snuggle closer and fit herself against him.

The moon continued to climb, coming as close to the sun as Anthelísse was to Thranduil. Then, little by little, it began to slide overtop of the fiery orb. The sun and the moon came together in the heavens, and the entire sky glowed with their celestial passion. Below on the mountainside, the two elves watched enthralled. Anthelísse could feel Thranduil's heart beating against her shoulder, and Thranduil's hand rested against the curve of her side.

As the climax of the eclipse approached, the sight became more beautiful and more unbearable to watch. A fiery halo grew around the moon where the sun shone behind it. Their eyes itched, and then began to water. Still Thranduil and Anthelísse did not look away until the last possible moment.

"Close your eyes." Thranduil whispered in Anthelísse's ears. His soft words sounded inordinately loud in the dreamlike stasis of the world. The sun and the moon still burning together in her mind, Anthelísse shut her eyes.

She felt Thranduil shift against her, and her pulse quickened. Being without sight heightened all her senses, but she could still feel the blush of the eclipse far above. The two of them remained entwined like that for one heartbeat, another...

Then there was a subtle shift in the glow through their eyelids; the zenith of the eclipse had passed. No longer would the sight of Arien and Tilion's union burn them to behold.

"Anthelísse..." Thranduil murmured. "...open your eyes."

Slowly, Anthelísse let her eyes drift open. The world still looked unreal, bathed in a wash of silvery orange light. Then the silver intensified, and she realized that she was looking at an object held up before her. The glow of the sky was reflected in its smooth, polished curvature.

It was a silver ring, perfectly round as a pure as the moon. A single white stone was set upon it, and it sparkled with a tiny star in the returning daylight. Anthelísse's breath caught in her throat.

"Anthelísse, daughter of Orodreth, Lady of the Noldor, will you marry me?"

"Yes." Anthelísse said, meeting Thranduil's gaze unwaveringly. The blue of the sky and the blue of the sea, mirrored back at one another. "Yes I will marry you, Thranduil son of Oropher, King of the Woodland Realm."

The two of them remained in that place for some time even after the eclipse passed. Overhead, Arien and Tilion parted and resumed their journeys across the heavens. Below on Arda, Thranduil and Anthelísse came together as one.


	20. Chapter 20 - Of Pure Starlight

**Guess what this chapter is about...? :-) Can you hear the wedding bells a-ringing? Just a note to anyone who might feel things jumped too quickly from proposal to wedding; we have a LOT of ground to cover as far as the arrival of Sauron in Dol-Goldur, the birth of Legolas and the eventual tragedy at the end... So needless to say, as much as I would like to linger we do have to keep the pace moving. Enjoy!**

* * *

"There now, how does that feel my lady?"

Cautiously, Anthelísse revolved atop the ottoman on which she stood to face herself in a full-length mirror. She had just spent the past hour being laced, buttoned and otherwise sealed into the gown she would wear to be married.

It was a beautiful creation to be sure, lovingly pieced together by the most skilled seamstresses in the entire Woodland Realm. The bodice and train were of white silk, so pure that Anthelísse almost could not bear to touch it for fear of marring its perfection. Lace met the border at her collarbone, covering her shoulders in a spidery pattern of surpassing delicacy. The translucent sleeves were so long and gossamer, they fluttered as if catching an unseen breeze with every move that Anthelísse made. Even in her years living in Nargothrond, never had Anthelísse ever worn such a dress. Nor did she imagine that the occasion would ever arise to do so again.

Aislinn had dressed her long golden hair with an attention to detail that would have shamed a dwarven jewel-smith. Twisting the strands of hair so they shone like golden ropes, Aislinn had woven them together into a cascading whole that fell down to the small of Anthelísse's back. At her brow they had set a circlet of pure platinum inlaid with a multitude of tiny white gems; one of the last heirlooms Anthelísse had of her house.

Looking herself slowly up and down, Anthelísse felt almost afraid of the being she saw before her. There was an air of such majesty and such fate about the reflection in the mirror that she was sure Aislinn would comment. _'I look like a myth come to life'_ she thought. _'Some great heroine of an epic drama'_.

"Anthelísse?" Aislinn sounded concerned. Standing at her side, the raven-haired handmaiden was likewise dressed in her finest. In less than an hour, they would all be in the palace gardens of Emyn Duir. In less than an hour, Anthelísse would be speaking the vows that would bind her to King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm before the eyes of all.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Anthelísse smiled and reached for Aislinn's hand.

"You've outdone yourself, Aislinn. Whatever would I do without you, mellon-nin?"

Aislinn gave Anthelísse's hand a squeeze. "You'd manage I'm sure. Perhaps with less well-kept hair and in plainer garb, but you'd manage."

A knock came at the door, and Aislinn went to answer it. Meanwhile Anthelísse stepped down off the stool, careful to hold up her long train to avoid stepping on the unblemished cloth.

It was the queen. Nellas was resplendent in a dress of royal cloth-of-gold, with many twisting leaves and branches embroidered along the sleeves in glittering thread. In her hands she carried a slim wooden case. When she saw Anthelísse, Nellas smiled softly.

"My son once told me he had fallen in love with the sun itself." Nellas said. "Now I can see what he spoke of."

"Lady Nellas." Anthelísse curtseyed, as she had always done in deference to the queen. Nellas stopped her with a swift gesture this time though.

"Nay, Anthelísse. No more shall you greet me thus. From this day on we shall be as mother and daughter, you and I." The queen's green eyes shone, many emotions shimmering beneath their surfaces. "Never before have I had one to call 'iel-nin'."

Anthelísse moved to grasp the older elf-woman's offered hand. "Then I shall be glad to call you 'naneth', Nellas of Doriath."

As if remembering why she had come, the queen held up the wooden box she carried. "Speaking of Doriath, I have a gift for you. I know it is the custom of the Noldor that the mother of bride gives a jewel to the bridegroom, and likewise for the father of the bridegroom to the bride. I therefore act in trust for Oropher in giving you this..."

Opening the lid on the case, Nellas offered forward what lay on a bed of black silk within. It was a necklace, a necklace of surpassing beauty and craftsmanship. White gems of pure starlight winked at Anthelísse from their silver nests. Without a doubt, this was an heirloom of immense worth, an heirloom of the Sindarin people of Doriath.

"My la...Naneth." Anthelísse gasped, scarcely daring to breathe. "This is..."

"These jewels belonged to Oropher's mother and her mother before her. They were mined from the breast of Arda and cast in silver by the dwarves of Belegost, ancient partners in trade with King Thingol and Queen Melian of Doriath. Oropher's family purchased this necklace from the dwarves before the fateful coming of the Silmaril and the death of Thingol." With Anthelísse still watching with wide eyes, Nellas lifted the jewels from their bed. "It was a gift, a promise of love from Oropher's grandfather to the elf lady who would become his wife. I give these stars, the _Elemmíre _to you who are about to become the wife of Oropher's son."

When Nellas lifted the necklace over Anthelísse's head and lifted her hair to fasten the catch, Anthelísse felt the weight of the jewels against the hollow of her throat. Aislinn gasped audibly, her face painted with reflected rainbows cast by the light against the Elemmíre.

"My lady, the Valar themselves would count you as one of their own if they were to glimpse you now." Aislinn declared. Nellas stepped back to admire the effect herself and seemed pleased.

"There." Said Nellas. "Now you are ready to become a queen."

**OoOoO**

In a sunroom bordering the palace gardens, Thranduil was pacing back and forth with a verve that supercharged the very air itself. Galion had long since given up trying to calm his lord and king, and instead hovered in the corner watching. Even the sunlight streaming in through the curtained windows and the distant music of harps did nothing to soothe the young bridegroom.

That was how Gurithon found Thranduil when he came to check on him. Standing in the doorway and feeling the wave of anxiety roll over him from within, the Captain of the Woodland Guard laughed aloud.

"Aran-nin, if you do not calm yourself you shall be in no fit state to attend your own wedding!"

"Such a threat will do nothing to calm me Gurithon!" Thranduil exclaimed, his eyes so wide that Gurithon could easily see the whites around the irises. "By the Valar, the ceremony starts in less than an hour!"

"Your point being?" Gurithon said, striding to the center of the room and grabbing hold of both Thranduil's shoulders. "Tell me Thranduil, what does it mean to get married?"

Thranduil was so startled by the seemingly simple question that he voluntarily stopped his pacing. Galion took advantage of the moment of calm in the storm to rush forward and start pinning Thranduil's long red-trimmed cloak to his shoulders. The elf king had to take several deep breaths before he could answer Gurithon.

"It means...It means to declare your undying love for another before the world, the Valar and Eru himself. It means binding yourself to another for the rest of eternity."

Gurithon smirked. "In a formal sense, yes. But what does it really _mean_, Sapling?"

Hearing his father's old nickname for him spoken aloud for the first time in years had an enormous effect on Thranduil. At once he remembered Oropher's calm, confident manner of dealing with any and all challenges. Realizing that his father would have chided him for his behaviour moments ago, Thranduil took another deep breath.

"It means becoming a husband, and beginning the rest of your life with the person you love."

With a satisfied smile, Gurithon squeezed Thranduil's shoulders and released him. "Right you are. That hardly seems like so terrifying a thing now, does it?"

"No, no it doesn't." Thranduil managed a weak smile. Galion cleared his throat, and the king allowed himself to be steered into a chair. Once he had Thranduil seated, Galion very nearly pounced with a comb and hair clasps. "What makes you so confident in the meaning of marriage, Gurithon?" Thranduil asked, eyeing the Silvan captain. "You are unmarried and not even courting!"

Gurithon winked rather drolly. "An elf can have his personal secrets, Thranduil."

"Meaning...?"

"Hush and focus on preparing for your own wedding, Aran-nin. Anthelísse might forgive you if you came to the joining ceremony with hair askew and robes dishevelled, but your mother certainly wouldn't."

"Bah, keep your secrets then!" Thranduil laughed. The previous firestorm of anxiety seemed a far distant memory now.

Still, when he stood waiting under the arbor of flowers where Anthelísse would join him, Thranduil felt his heart fluttering like a whole nest of butterflies. Hundreds of elves sat on long benches in the gardens, and the sweet music of harpers filled the air. He saw familiar face after familiar face, but still his mind insisted on prancing about like a nervy deer. Tucking his hands behind the folds of his silvery tunic, Thranduil hoped his palms were not sweating.

Then the tone of the music changed. All rose to their feet, and every head turned toward the arched palace doorway at the head of the long isle. Thranduil's heart felt like it would leap from his very chest for beating.

Then the world fell away, becoming serene and beautiful like a waking daydream. All the voices of anxiety, apprehension and uncertainty fell silent. There was room for only one thing Thranduil's entire soul.

Her.

**OoOoO**

That evening, Thranduil and Anthelísse sat side-by-side at the head of the wedding feast. Lanterns had been lit throughout the gardens, and tiny motes of light danced in the shadows from the multitudes of gathering fireflies. Hundreds of merry voices carried into the air from the guests, and underscoring everything was the music of the Woodland Realm's best minstrels.

For the hundredth time, Thranduil's gaze slid to the matching rings that he and Anthelísse now wore on their index fingers. She had had another made to match the one he had given her during their proposal. The weight of it felt foreign on his finger, but Thranduil loved it. It was a visible sign of the bond that he and Anthelísse now shared.

When Anthelísse turned to smile at him, Thranduil felt his heart stop as it had time and time before that entire day. With the Elemmíre winking at her throat, she looked like a vision of starlight. She did not wear the crown of the queen of the Woodland Realm; that power remained with Nellas for however long as she should remain in Arda. That did not trouble either of them in the slightest though. For now, all that mattered to Thranduil and Anthelísse was that they could call one another 'husband' and 'wife'.

The various courtiers and nobles of the Greenwood took their turns in presenting gifts to the newlywed couple. Acting in trust for Anthelísse's own deceased mother, Aislinn and the other Noldor presented Thranduil with a blue sapphire on a long twisting chain.

"This jewel once belonged to Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor. We of that folk now give it to you, King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, in honor of your marriage to our lady."

"Thank you, people of the Noldor." Thranduil said as he accepted the pendant. "I accept your gift on behalf of Anthelísse's mother, and on behalf of your people."

It continued on thus for some time, with some offering gifts of poetry, others of music, and many of various valuable treasures. Maechenel gifted Thranduil and Anthelísse with a play, performed by young elves in a plethora of fanciful costumes before all the wedding guests. Erchelil presented them with a beautiful blue rose, thirty more of which she had carefully bred from other species in the gardens of Emyn Duir. Tharnor gave the newlyweds two chalices, one of gold and one of silver. Although the Master of Coin bowed and smiled as he presented the goblets, that smile did not reach his mismatched eyes.

As the evening wore on, Thranduil found himself becoming more and more unable to tear his eyes away from Anthelísse. Anthelísse noticed this, and beckoned him in close with a crook of her finger. Leaning towards his new wife, Thranduil cocked his ear to hear her.

Speaking in a whisper too low for even the sharp ears of Nellas sitting nearby, Anthelísse told Thranduil in rather explicit detail exactly how much she was looking forward to their 'real' wedding that night. Thranduil's eyes grew so wide, they could not have been any bigger without rolling out of his head. When he straightened back up, Anthelísse gave him a shockingly licentious smile before returning to the conversation she had been having earlier.

Suddenly, Thranduil could not wait for the wedding feast to be over.


	21. Chapter 21 - A Shadow from the South

**Time for our weekly chapter! Things are starting to move as far as the progression of the plot toward our final destination. I've got the end of LEQ all planned out, and I have some big shockers in store for you all. *evil laughter* As I think you all know, this will inevitably not be a happy story at its conclusion, but I am very satisfied with how it will set the stage for the future actions of characters like Thranduil, Legolas and Tauriel (Yes, her too. I'm a big Tauriel fan, and believe she needs her own background fleshed out just as much as anyone else in the world of Arda). **

**Enjoy!**

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For many lifetimes of Man, peace descended on the Woodland Realm. Guided by the maturing leadership of Thranduil, and by extension the respective wisdoms of Nellas and Anthelísse, the folk of the Greenwood prospered. All came to know their fair measure of happiness under their Sindarin king and his Noldo lady. Even those who had once frowned in disapproval at the marrying of the Noldor into the monarchy or a predominantly Silvan and Sindarin realm came to admit that all was seemingly well with the world.

Like the phases of the moon and the waves of the sea though, all things move in cycles. Peace begets war just as much as war eventually begets peace. No amount of stability can deny the inevitability of chaos; indeed waters that become too calm almost seem to invite ripples. That is why the defection of Morgoth was so paramount to the making of the world. Without the utter darkness of chaos, the daylight of peace would seem a pale, wane thing. To truly appreciate the dawn, one must first walk the bitter reaches of the night.

It was a cool November when the first ripples of chaos touched the calm of the Greenwood. Thranduil and Anthelísse were at leisure in the palace gallery when a Silvan scout was brought before them. Her green tunic betraying dark shadows of blood, the scout delivered her report with deceptive calm.

"The ruins of Amon Lanc, Aran-nin, something foul has made its home there. I know not what, only that it is drawing all manner of evil to the Southern Greenwood. My patrol was ambushed by orcs not once but twice as we completed the old route. The first time we thought to be a fluke. The second we knew it could not be so. The orcs behaved too boldly...almost territorially."

Thranduil listened in grave silence, exchanging a look with Anthelísse. They both felt the cold prickle of a gathering storm across the back of their necks. The centuries of peace the realm had enjoyed had been purchased at the highest cost; the cost of blood. Elves' memories are long though, and their numbers slow to recover. Thranduil and Anthelísse both knew that they did not have the strength to repel an attack, even one festering within the Greenwood's own borders.

"Gurithon." Thranduil said, standing up from the coach on which he had been reclining with Anthelísse. "Why have we not been alert to such movements before now? How can darkness have crept past our eyes onto our very back porch?"

Gurithon stepped up to stand directly behind the still-kneeling scout. The captain's long face was grave such as it had not been in centuries.

"My lord, since the Last Alliance we have not had the scouts needed to keep up regular patrols in the south. Amon Lance has not been occupied by anyone since ere your father came here from Doriath. Some might be bold as to say it was only a matter of time before we either rebuilt the old fortress...or someone else claimed it for their own."

"Some might be so bold, but not yourself of course." Anthelísse rebuked Gurithon solemnly. When the Silvan captain did not flinch from his earlier statement she sighed. Long hands kneading at the red velvet of her dress, the queen-in-waiting spoke. "Unfortunately I agree with you Gurithon. It was out of the question that we should have had the resources to reclaim and maintain Amon Lanc."

Focussing the full force of his attention back to the scout, Thranduil leaned in. The years had sharpened away his youthful self-doubt, giving the king a deeply focused bearing. Thranduil had proven himself heir not only to Oropher's charismatic charm, but also to Nellas's fey power of character.

"Tell me, Thenniel...how close were you to Emyn Duir when the second ambush occurred?"

The scout inclined her pointed chin to look Thranduil in the eye. She was possessed of a head full of bright russet hair; a rarity among Silvan elves.

"Two days' run as the crow flies, Aran-nin." She replied.

A palpable intake of breath went around the long gallery. Even the tapestries and paintings cast in the pale light of early winter seemed stilled.

Straightening, Thranduil unconsciously fingered the silver ring on his index finger. It was a habit he had developed in moments of stress. When he spoke again, it was in a voice so low that human ears might have missed it.

"Thank you Thenniel, you are free to go. Take a fortnight away from active duty to mourn your comrades and re-gather yourself."

The red-headed scout bowed once more, then rose to leave. Passing Gurithon, the two elves shared a brief glance.

When Thenniel had gone, Anthelísse let out a long breath.

"The orcs are bold indeed to attack our people so close to Emyn Duir. They must have become numerous these past centuries, multiplying like cockroaches under a rock."

"Yes, but it is not their numbers that I fear." Thranduil said, moving to look out of a half-opened window. The many glass panes cast their scattering of light across his face. Soon there would be frost on the branches of the trees, to be followed by the yearly blanket of white snow. "Come winter, any movement from these orcs will slow. We need not fear any encroachment for the next several months at least."

"But what of spring?" asked Anthelísse, rising with a rustle of velvet. "You heard the words of the scout; these creatures have found something larger and fouler than themselves to rally to, and are using the ruins of Amon Lanc as their staging point."

For a moment Thranduil was silent, watching the bare trees in the gardens beyond rustle nakedly. Then he cleared his throat.

"Gurithon, I want you to organize a party of your finest. You will send them south toward Amon Lanc, with orders to rout any orcs they encounter. Have Thenniel go as well; she knows where the orcs were last sighted and can lead the warriors."

For the first time in the entirety of his service to the house of Oropher, Guriton hesitated. "Thranduil...the patrol that we lost was two dozen strong. It would have taken considerable numbers to slay so many of our people." When Anthelísse opened her mouth to speak, Gurithon hurriedly continued. "If you command me, I will prepare this routing party. However, I wish to ask one thing of you; let me lead them in Thenniel's stead."

Thranduil frowned. "Why should that be, Gurithon? I count you as both my most loyal warrior and one of my oldest friends, and will gladly grant anything that you ask. I am not well disposed to the suggestion that I risk your incredibly valuable neck though."

Anthelísse visibly rolled her eyes with a little smirk. When Thranduil looked at her incredulously, she elaborated.

"Have you forgotten Imladris...Elrond and the Lady Celebrian?"

Thranduil most certainly hadn't. Seeing his Captain of the Guard in a new light, he considered Gurithon before speaking.

"Is the risk so high that you deem it worth placing yourself in the path of danger in front of another, mellon-nin?"

Gurithon nodded slowly. "I do. My people have lived in this forest since time unmeasured, Thranduil. If the south has become so overrun that a full complement of our scouts can be murdered along those paths, then I hesitate to send more of our folk into danger. We do not have the strength to fight another war."

Anthelísse went to Thranduil and took his hand. In the grey light, the heightened pink across the bones of her cheeks was just visible. She permitted Thranduil's hand to wander free of her grasp to caress the slight swell of her belly. There was even more at stake now than just their own lives and the lives of the people of the Greenwood. Love had permanently turned the gazes of Thranduil and Anthelísse toward the future, and the lives of future generations.

"What are we to do?" Anthelísse murmured, to herself just as much as to Thranduil and Gurithon.

Thranduil sighed, tracing the crescent of Anthelísse's navel. It was an intimate gesture, one he had done many a night as they lay together since she had told him of her pregnancy. After so many centuries of peace, they had finally dared to commit to that climatic expression of ultimate devotion. Fate was cruel that such dark tidings should come now, when an heir to the throne of the Woodland Realm was preparing to enter the world.

"We have the winter." Thranduil said, meeting Anthelísse's gaze sadly. "If spring brings with it a rise in enemy activity to the south, we likely shall find ourselves forced to act one way or another."

"By then, however many orcs are already swarming in the ruins of Amon Lanc will likely have increased twofold." Anthelísse remarked. It was a harsh mockery of the slow, peaceful ripening of elvish pregnancy that the servants of darkness should be as prolific as rats. "Emyn Duir is not Gondolin or Nargothrond. If evil spreads, we will be poorly situated to defend ourselves here in this city without high walls or natural protections."

"My lord, my lady." Gurithon spoke up, his tone laden with sudden inspiration. "I have an idea. It may be drastic, but it also holds the possibility of avoiding confrontation entirely."

Thranduil's arched brows knitted together. "Speak then, old friend."

"There is a place in the north of the Greenwood, far beyond easy reach from Amon Lanc. It was once a sanctuary of the Silvan peoples, when Morgoth walked the face of Arda..."


	22. Chapter 22 - Uprooting

**Yay, new chapter! We're getting closer and closer to the birth of Legolas *cough*nextchapter*cough*! In the meantime, Thranduil is having to deal with the repercussions of suggesting they move from Emyn Duir, and Anthelísse is bracing herself for what is likely to be a memorable labor. Enjoy!**

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It is no small thing, to uproot and move an entire nation. Like any living, growing thing, enough time spent in one place will lead to the putting down of roots. This was just as true of the elves of the Woodland Realm. The Silvan folk had been living in Emyn Duir since even before the arrival of Oropher and his Sindarin followers.

Despite initial resistance, come summertime the number of people willing to consider Thranduil's proposition had grown to over half the population. Nearly every week there came word of new attacks from orcs around the borders of the kingdom. More and more scouts died, ambushed along their patrol routes despite increased security measures. The final straw came when a party of orcs were spotted within bowshot range of Emyn Duir itself. The elves knew just as keenly as Thranduil that they did not have the strength to repel their new enemies from the south.

And so it was that the people of the Greenwood began their preparations to move. Gurithon had described at length to Thranduil and the council exactly where their new home would be. According to the captain it was a large, naturally lit and airy cavern system on the northeastern edge of the forest. Many of the Silvan members of the council recognized the place, the caverns having sheltered their own descendants early in the Second Age. The only vocal opponent, unsurprisingly, was Tharnor.

"Thus we are to abandon our fair city just like that?" The Master of Coin said angrily. "With nary a fight nor a stand?"

"By all means Tharnor, if you will volunteer to lead such a stand then I will gladly see it organized." Thranduil replied. Leaning forward to place his hands flat on the polished tabletop, the king gazed at the council one by one. "If any among you believe we are truly capable of holding Emyn Duir against an enemy assault then please, speak now."

Daeris, the Mistress of the Larders cleared her throat. "Although I am loathe to leave Emyn Duir to take up residence in a cave, I just do not see how we can possibly withstand the rising tide of evil here. Truth be told, if I understand Gurithon correctly, we no longer have what could be rightly called a standing army. It will be some years yet before enough young ellons and elleths have completed their training as warriors of the Greenwood."

Tharnor clenched his white fingers until the bones of his knuckles were prominent. "You would ask me to live underground like a dwarf? You would ask our people to shut themselves beneath a roof of stone away from the light?"

"As I seem to recall, you Silvans lived thusly for some centuries long before I or my father ever came here." Thranduil pointed out, his temper rising. It was poorly said though; the flash of indignant rage that hardened Tharnor's expression spoke volumes. There would be a reckoning between that one and the House of Oropher someday, of that Thranduil had no doubt.

"It was I who told the king of The Halls, Master of Coin." Gurithon spoke up from his post beside Thanduil's chair. "If you refuse to accompany us to the sanctuary of our ancestors, then by all means you are welcome to stay here. Somehow I doubt you will have much company against the orcs though."

The rest of the council had been of much the same opinion. The session had been adjourned with the consensus that the people of the Greenwood would indeed abandon Emyn Duir. Thranduil's announcement to the city later that week had been greeted with much controversy.

**OoO**

That had been almost a month ago. The height of summer saw the city deep into their preparations for the move. It was not just a matter of packing up individual households. Entire livelihoods were being uprooted, as well as the contents of the entire palace of Emyn Duir. The archivists were in a tizzy trying to package ancient scrolls, books and artifacts from the library, even under the supervision of Daerchon.

Anthelísse was busy helping to oversee the taking down of all the tapestries in the gallery. With regret she gazed upon the magnificent stained glass windows that lined the hall. There was no help for it; most were too large and fragile to attempt such a long move. In lieu of the real articles, a score of artists were even now seated along the length of the gallery attempting to recreate the beauty of the windows on their canvases.

A sudden movement from within the dome of her belly caught Anthelísse off guard. With a grimace, she braced her hands against the small of her back.

"My lady?" Aislinn asked in concern, setting aside the cord she had been tying around a rolled up tapestry.

"I am alright, Aislinn." Anthelísse said breathlessly. "It is just the little one making themselves known."

"You do not feel any pressure though?" Nellas came to her daughter-by-marriage's side, rubbing the base of Anthelísse's spine. "It has been nearly three thousand years since I bore Thranduil, but I still remember well the exact feel of labor. When it begins, you shall most certainly know."

"That I do not doubt." Anthelísse said with a slightly pained smile. "Still, I am not due for another half-cycle of the moon at least."

The queen frowned, her green eyes troubled. "That is unfortunate timing. The journey north to The Halls will take a week at the very least. You could very well be faced with delivering in the middle of the forest if your pregnancy proceeds apace."

Laying a hand across the crest of her belly, Anthelísse gave a little pat. "Anytime you are ready, little one. Your Naneth and Ada will be overjoyed to meet you whenever and wherever you arrive."

"Do you have a name chosen yet for the elfling, Anthelísse?" Aislinn asked.

Anthelísse shook her head. "Thranduil and I have discussed a few possibilities, but we will not know for certain until we see the child's face." She smiled as she recalled that immensely pleasant debate with her husband. "Thranduil wishes the babe to have a Noldorin name, in homage to his ancestry on my side. I disagree though. I think that since the child will be a prince or princess of the Woodland Realm, they ought to have a name that reflects the nature of their people in the here and now."

Nellas slid the tapestry she had just tied on-end into a long crate with the others. The queen turned to where other elves were in the process of taking down the tapestry Anthelísse had woven for Thranduil. Her fey gaze softened as she looked upon the noble face of Oropher, immortalized in a moment of undimmed glory.

"You babe will be a child of three peoples, Anthelísse." Nellas said, her words tinged with an air of prophecy. "Born of Sindar and Noldo parents, but raised in a world of the Silvans. Whichever name you choose, it should if at all possible recognize that."

"A simple enough task, wouldn't you say?" Aislinn laughed aloud. "And do not forget that you will also need to have such a name at the ready for both an ellon and an elleth!"

"Ai, if only I could know which!" Anthelísse exclaimed, kneading her back one last time before going to help Nellas roll up the tapestry of Oropher. "Then Thranduil and I would have half the work in choosing names."

"What do you think, Your Majesty?" Aislinn asked Nellas. "Do you have any predictions as to whether you shall be a grandmother to a princess or a prince?"

"Only Eru knows the truth of the future, Aislinn." Nellas replied.

It was the sort of thing that Iminyë would have said. For a moment, Aislinn and Anthelísse shared a quiet remembrance of their fallen friend. Just that morning Anthelísse had joined Daerchon in supervising the taking down of the handmaiden's statue from where it stood in the library.

In the years following Iminyë's death, one Silvan youth with sorrowful brown eyes had practically haunted the corner of the archives where her statue was raised. Not long after, the ellon had faded from grief himself. In tribute to the young lovers, Anthelísse and Thranduil had had a statue cast of the ellon and placed facing that of Iminyë from across the atrium. The two would be transported to The Halls in the north, there to be installed in the new archives together for all time.

They worked together for most of the morning alongside the servants, ensuring that each and every tapestry was rolled and bound with care. When the final nail went into the lid of the crates carrying the woven treasure, they retired to the queen's solar for lunch.

"What do you know of The Halls, Nellas?" Anthelísse asked as she propped up her feet on the one of the few remaining stools that had not been packed. Without the shelves, paintings and other hangings, the smooth walls of the solar caught her voice and cast it back with a slight echo.

The queen paused in eating her bowl of spiced cottage cheese. "Not very much I fear. I came to this place just as much a stranger as you, albeit alongside Oropher and with Thranduil an elfling on my hip. You would be better served asking a Silvan native of the Greenwood."

"It's strange…" Aislinn leaned forward in her chair to cup her pointed chin atop her palm. "Forgive me for my boldness Your Majesty, but sometimes I quite forget that you are as Sindarin as Thranduil. You are so…"

"So Silvan?" Nellas finished the handmaiden's thought with a wry half-smile. When Aislinn nodded unabashedly, the queen chuckled. "You are not the first to comment, Aislinn."

"I must admit, I have often shared much the same thought." Anthelísse said. She balanced her water glass atop her stomach, which had become far less amusing as it was function over the past few moons.

Nellas smiled mysteriously. "Silvan blood runs thick, even after a number of generations. The Sindarin people of Doriath had been mingling with the Silvan folk of that realm for so long, I have no doubt that I have Silvan ancestry somewhere in my bloodline. Unlike Oropher I was not born into nobility, and so perhaps less attention had been paid to my lineage compared to his since our arrival in the Greenwood."

"You know what that means then…" Aislinn reached over to pat the side of Anthelísse's bump fondly, as was often her habit. "The prince or princess will be a child of all three elvish lineages both figuratively and literally. The blood of the Noldor from Anthelísse, and the blood of both the Sindarin and the Silvans from Thranduil."

"Not so much Silvan as Sindarin." Nellas said. "Still, blood will out. I will be very interested to meet this child in the near future."

"As will we all." Anthelísse smiled. Drumming her fingers lightly against the taught fabric of her dress, she started to hum the lullaby that her own mother had once sung to herself, Gil-Galad and Finduilas.

_"Fair as the distant stars  
Strong as the rooted tree  
On, ever on goes time  
Slow for her, and quick for he..."*****_

_***** \- 'Star and Tree' by Michelle Bottorff_


	23. Chapter 23 - The Deep Breath

**This is it, the chapter we've all been waiting for; the birth of Legolas! I hope I did this momentous occasion justice, and that you will all enjoy reading about it. :-) I may or may not succumb to temptation and put the next chapter out early...**

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A single leaf fell from the bough of a tree overhead, fluttering and spiralling on its way. It caught in the hair of an elf who passed silently along the path below. There it stayed, an orange broach that waved with every light movement of the elf who bore it. Soon thousands and millions of its brothers and sisters would turn and fall as well, showering the Greenwood in a carpet of yellow, gold and rust.

"Here, let me see that meleth-nin."

Thranduil reined up his horse and leaned in close to where Anthelísse reclined on her litter. The queen-in-waiting was much too far gone in the final days of pregnancy to ride anymore. Reaching up, she plucked the little orange oak leaf from Thranduil's hair.

"The first leaf of autumn." Anthelísse commented, setting the leaf on the pillow beside her. She and Thranduil took a moment to look around at the ripening beauty of the forest around them. With a sigh Thranduil looked back toward Emyn Duir.

"I wonder if we shall ever return to claim these lands again." He said sadly. "I may have been born in Doriath, but the arms of the Black Mountains have ever been the only home I've known."

"Someday." Anthelísse reassured her husband.

"Someday..." Thranduil repeated, turning away from the winding road to keep pace with the caravan of elves. A full seven thousand of their folk wended along the narrow trails of the forest, all their earthly goods accompanying them on carts and wagons. It was slow going over the rough terrain of the Greenwood.

They could all feel the eyes of their scouts from the arms of the trees all around. Gurithon had expressed numerous times just how vulnerable they would be throughout the long journey north to The Halls. Every elf with any training in woodcraft had been drafted to act as a scout, and they had multiple guards watching out for orcs at all times in all directions. The main concern was for the flank of the caravan though, and that was where Gurithon had stationed himself along with Thenniel and her company.

For some reason though, what Thranduil saw then had escaped all notice save for his own. A silent movement in the forest caught his gaze, and the elf king found himself locked in a matched stare with an enormous stag. It was a magnificent creature, such as he had only seen once before. Memory recalled the mighty animal which had escaped the Mabon feast so many years ago.

"Thranduil?" Anthelísse called, noticing that he had fallen behind his usual position beside her litter. With her condition being so tenuous, Thranduil was rarely more than arm's length away.

The stag blinked, and the timeless void that had existed between the two of them was broken. With a bow of his formidable rack of antlers, the stag turned and vanished away into the shadows. Thranduil was left wondering if this was truly the same animal as before. It defied all logic, but the feel of a kindred spirit was present with just as much intensity now as it was then.

"Are you alright, meleth?" Anthelísse asked, leaning as far forward as she could with a puzzled expression. The glow of pregnancy made her ocean blue eyes shine almost unnaturally.

"Yes, yes I'm alright." Thranduil said, shaking himself and nudging his horse into a trot to keep up. "I almost wonder if my mind is playing tricks on me though."

Anthelísse smiled and reached for Thranduil's hand. "I have wondered much the same thing as of late. My dreams have taken strange twists and turns, sometimes I almost fear that I shall still be dreaming even during my waking hours."

"What have you dreamt? Anything concerning our child?"

Releasing Thranduil's hand that he might ride comfortably without being pulled half-over to one side, Anthelísse rubbed at her rounded belly. "I cannot say with any certainty. I am no seer, but there is one dream that comes back to me time and time again." The Lady of the Noldor shifted, although from physical discomfort or disquiet Thranduil could not tell. "Nearly every night since the last turn of the moons now, I have seen you...standing on a shoreline alone by nightfall. You pace and pace, and I can only watch you from afar. Then you stop and set a single leaf down upon the beach. Waves rise with the tide and carry the leaf out to sea, towards me, but I cannot reach you or call out to you." Anthelísse shuddered, wrapping her cloak tighter around her shoulders even though the chill of autumn had not truly descended yet. "I knew it was you in my dream, but I could not see your face. You felt so far away...so very far away from me. All I had of you was that little leaf."

Alarmed to say the least, Thranduil dismounted from his horse and climbed up into the litter beside Anthelísse. Wrapping his wife in his arms, he tucked her head beneath his chin and held her close.

"Perhaps it is merely the approaching birth that had prompted such dreams, my love." He tried to reassure her, despite the chill that had settled along the length of his spine. "It cannot be long now."

Anthelísse let out a long breath, clutching tightly at Thranduil's arms almost to the point of bruising. "Perhaps." She looked up at him and drew his hand down to her stomach. "The little one has been kicking all day now fit to climb straight out on their own."

The two elves stayed entwined in one another's embrace all throughout the rest of that day's journey. The night they made camp in wooded dell, sheltered on both sides by alder, birch and ash trees of varying autumn hues. Thranduil stayed by Anthelísse's side all throughout the night, partially to watch her condition but also because he wanted to banish all traces of her dream with his presence. Neither of them fell into a reverie that night though. Instead they lay awake together in silence, speaking in ways that words could never grasp. Even Thranduil could feel that something was about to change. The hour was nigh when their lives would change forever.

An hour before the dawning, Anthelísse suddenly drew in a sharp gasp of breath. Thranduil was sitting bolt upright on their tent bed in a heartbeat. He hadn't changed out of his riding clothes from the day before, and his hair was unbound. All his focus was on Anthelísse as she propped herself up on her elbows.

"Is it time?" Thranduil asked softly.

Anthelísse looked at him, then nodded. Her golden hair fell in long waves down her back and shoulders like a shawl. The first traces of morning framed Anthelísse with a shimmering halo through the wall of the tent behind. Over the beating of his heart and the racing of his mind, Thranduil thought he had never seen anything so beautiful before in all his life. Tousled, flushed and in a plain night-robe, Anthelísse looked like life itself.

"Go, get Aislinn and tell her to fetch my kit." Anthelísse said, and the slight shake to her voice galvanized Thranduil into action. Nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste, he rushed out of their tent with a hurried collection of promises that all would be well.

A number of elves looked at their king curiously as he dashed toward the tent Aislinn shared with Anthelísse's other handmaidens. Belatedly he realized he had forgotten to ask Anthelísse if she wanted him to fetch Siroth, the chief healer from the court of the Woodland Realm. Anthelísse was a skillful healer in her own right, but he couldn't imagine she would possibly be able to birth their child without a surgeon on hand. He resolved to go for Siroth as soon as he had alerted Aislinn and his mother.

Aislinn it turned out had been waiting all night for such a summons, and was on her way across the encampment to Thranduil and Anthelísse's tent before Thranduil even finished his first sentence. Not for the first time, Thranduil wondered at the devotion of the raven-haired elleth to her lady. Then, heedless of the tangles that were accumulating in his hair nor the general disarray of his garb, Thranduil went to Queen Nellas's tent.

Nellas likewise seemed far from surprised that Anthelísse was in labor. When Thranduil mentioned that he was going for Siroth though, she stopped him.

"This is women's work, ion-nin." Nellas said gently but firmly. "Siroth is a fine healer, but he does not know the realities of carrying and birthing a child. Trust in me, and in your wife."

"But..." Thranduil tried to protest.

"Be grateful that you and Anthelísse are not humans; labor goes ever so much harder on their women than on us. Rest assured, Anthelísse is strong and brave. And this will only become easily with your second and third children." Seeing her son's stricken expression, the queen smiled. "I promise you Thranduil, never in my life have I ever heard tell of an elf woman struggling overmuch with labor. You shall have your son or daughter safely in your arms very soon, I swear it."

Thus reprimanded and reassured, Thranduil could do nothing but wait. He found Gurithon and Galion, and together the three of them went for a short walk around the perimeter of the encampment. Seeing the entirety of their people all gathered in that forest dell was quite good for regaining perspective.

Thranduil found himself fixated on any elflings that he saw though, be they very young or nearing adolescence. Elves were not as a rule incredibly prolific people, and every child was seen as a great gift. When he heard the giggles of a brother and sister at play in the trees nearby, it was the sweetest of music to the expectant father's ears. He imagined his and Anthelísse's child a thousand different ways, even as Gurithon and Galion tried to engage him in conversation. Would they be an elleth with Anthelísse's deep blue eyes and Oropher's flaxen hair? Or perhaps an ellon with Thranduil's pointed chin and Nellas's fey green eyes.

When they returned at last to the clearing in front of Thranduil and Anthelísse's tent they were surprised to find a number of elves hovering about the area. Some such as Maechenel approached and greeting Thranduil with smiles and words of congratulations. Every once in a while though there would come a muted gasp or groan from inside the tent and everyone would freeze. Once Aislinn emerged for a kettle of boiled water, and Thranduil fair near pounced upon her in his ravenous need for news. The handmaiden was noncommittal though, and finally Thranduil could bear it no longer.

"I will not wait outside and leave Anthelísse to fight this battle alone!" Thranduil cried, shaking off Gurithon's hand. Ignoring calls from the Captain of the Guard and his steward, the king barged into the tent.

Anthelísse was leaning against the side of the camp bed, her hands folded together on the blankets so tightly that the bones of her knuckles showed clearly. Aislinn was rubbing Anthelísse's back while Nellas knelt behind the laboring elf woman. Other elleths from Anthelísse's entourage hovered about, some crushing herbs and others soaking cloths. All heads turned abruptly when Thranduil entered, and he could have sworn he saw Anthelísse smile at the corner of her mouth.

"Well." Nellas said, turning back to her work. "If you refuse to wait then you may as well be useful, Thranduil." The dowager queen sounded thoroughly amused. "Go and tell your wife that she need not hold back any longer; this baby is fair ready to walk out on its own!"

Thranduil needed no further instruction. Hurrying around the bed, he knelt across it facing Anthelísse and took her hands in his. Her face was streaked with sweat and her lips were raw from being bitten, but otherwise she looked hale and calm. She even managed another smile in between deep, ragged breaths.

"Meleth-nin, it is time..." Thranduil whispered, nearly overcome with emotion. He and Anthelísse were squeezing each other's hands so tightly it was almost painful. A hard, determined light came into Anthelísse's eyes and she nodded.

Just as both Anthelísse and Nellas had predicted, the child was born so swiftly that Aislinn would often say for years afterwards that their help was unneeded. The infant, an ellon, let out a lively squeal the second he landed safe in Nellas's waiting hands. The sound brought tears to both Anthelísse's and Thranduil's eyes, and the two parents touched their foreheads together before turning to meet their son.


	24. Chapter 24 - Golden Child

**Surprise! I wasn't kidding when I said I might have a new chapter out early! There will be LOTS of baby Legolas in this chapter, as well as some major moving and shaking that will set the stage for future events. I do so love exploring the back-stories of character's in Tolkien's world, as well as their motivations and what makes them who they are. That being said, enjoy!**

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A short while later, Thranduil sat upon the edge of a small river bank, becoming acquainted with his newborn son. Despite all her protests, Anthelísse had been utterly exhausted by the birth. It had taken endless cajoling, coaxing and reassuring to get her to finally relinquish the infant. Thranduil had left her already drifting off into a deep reverie, their son swaddled in his arms.

Now as he held up the tiny elfling, Thranduil marvelled at the wonder of this new life he and Anthelísse had created. The sunlight through the autumn treetops of the Greenwood cast the babe's face in a warm glow. Inch by tender inch Thranduil studied every detail of the child.

A tiny hand peeked out over the edge of his swaddling blankets, five little white fingernail crescents tucked into a half-curled fist. The little tuft of white-gold hair atop the elfling's head was as pale and fine as spun silk. Thranduil fingered that downy curl with a gentle caress, almost afraid to touch the baby's skin too firmly. His son smelled like earth after a rain and something else, the scent that was solely that of a newborn.

Thranduil's touch elicited a stir from the baby, who gave a little snuffle as he squirmed inside his blanket. Carefully, ever so carefully, Thranduil lowered his son onto his knees and cradled the elfling's shoulders.

"Mae go'vannen, ion-nin." (Well met, my son.) Thranduil murmured, testing out the words on his tongue. He had a son, and he was a father. That was an entirely new role, the likes of which he had never before worn. Thranduil had been many things throughout his nearly three thousand years; a son, a prince, a husband, a king. To be a father was his newest and greatest title, one which Thranduil could not imagine ever being any less of a wonder to him than it was now.

"May I join you?"

Taking care not to disturb the baby, Thranduil turned to look over his shoulder. Nellas was standing nearby, having approached with almost unearthly silence. The sleeves of her gown were still rolled to the elbows and her long brown hair was pulled back. At this time they were no longer a king and a dowager queen, but simply a new father and his mother.

"Of course, Naneth." Thranduil nodded to a patch of moss on the riverbank beside him. A pair of black squirrels raced up a tree trunk across the stream, their nails making _tsch tsch_ sounds in the gnarled wood. The sound reached the elfling's tender pointed ears, and he opened his eyes. Nellas folded her knees and sat cross-legged, as Thranduil often remembered her doing when he himself was a very small ellon.

"May I?" Nellas opened her arms and reached for her grandson. Thranduil gingerly passed the baby over, tucking in a loose end of the swaddling blanket as he did. "Hello, little one." Nellas crooned, settling her precious bundle into the crook of her arm. "Welcome to the world."

The baby blinked, watching Nellas through half-lidded eyes. She lightly stroked him along his velvety cheek, and he yawned.

"Anthelísse and I have decided on his name." Thranduil said, watching his mother and son together with a full heart. When Nellas looked up at him he smiled. "We took your advice about a name that reflected the nature of all three elvish peoples; Sindarin, Noldo and Silvan. His name is _Legolas_, or Greenleaf." Thranduil pronounced the name very deliberately, taking care to enunciate the Silvan inflections to the otherwise Sindarin words.

"From the word 'laeg' for 'green'?" Nellas asked, surprised. "That is a very ancient, very rare form of the word. I have not heard of its use besides with regards to the Green elves of the First Age. They were the ancestors of our modern Silvan elves, yes?"

"Exactly." Thranduil nodded, pleased that Nellas had caught onto the meaning.

"And where do the Noldor come in?"

"That is where Anthelísse's knowledge of Noldo history was invaluable." Thranduil said, beaming with pride. "In Gondolin there lived a Noldo elf with a Sindarin name, Legolas of the House of the Tree. During the Fall of Gondolin the people looked to him for his keen eyes and knowledge of the mountains to guide them to safety. His name in Quenya was _Laiqalassë_, and so our own Legolas shall have the same counterpart to his name, for formal use if ever he finds himself among the Noldor."

"Legolas." Nellas rocked her grandson slowly in her lap, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm."

As if hearing and understanding his name, Legolas opened his eyes all the way and cooed up at Nellas. The queen cocked her head in sudden fascination, prompting concern from Thranduil.

"What is it Naneth? Is he not perfectly whole and well?"

Nellas chuckled lightly, turning her attention back to her anxious son. "Be at ease Thranduil, your son is one of the fairest children ever to bless the face of Arda. As light and golden an ellon as Lúthien Tinúviel was dark and beautiful an elleth. I was merely wondering at his eyes. They remind me a great deal of someone whom I knew well a very long time ago."

"Truly? Whom?" Thranduil asked curiously, leaning in for a closer look at the baby's face.

Legolas's eyes were quite captivating, even for a newborn. A subtle grey-blue around the pupils, they darkened to nearly indigo at the irises. More notable even than the color though was how they moved. Admittedly Thranduil had little experience with elflings this small, but the way in which Legolas's eyes focused on the world around him was striking.

"Beleg Cúthalion, the Strongbow of Doriath. He too had eyes that seemed to not only see but mark everything around him. 'Archer's Eyes', we who knew Beleg called them." Nellas laughed then, low and softly. "Beleg's eyes were green though, much like my own. Still, the focus is quite remarkably alike."

"'Archer's Eyes' you say?" Thranduil said, leaning over and stroking the bridge of Legolas's nose. The baby almost went cross-eyed trying to follow his father's finger, and both Thranduil and Nellas laughed despite themselves. Indignant, the tiny elfling yawned and promptly settled in for his third nap in the space of an hour.

"Thranduil, there is something that I must now tell you." Nellas said, carefully handing little Legolas back to him. "Something that has led me to wait many years for this day."

"Naneth?" Thranduil settled Legolas onto his lap, a hand on either side of the precious little bundle.

Nellas gazed long into the waters of the forest stream before speaking again. "Since the day Oropher died, my heart has yearned to take ship from the Havens and follow him. It may be tomorrow, it may be a thousand years from now, but someday Mandos shall see fit to release your father from his halls. When that time comes and he is given a new form in Valinor, I want to be there to greet him." Nellas laid her hand on Thranduil's shoulder, and her expression was one of untold age. "From the moment you were born and I took you into my arms, I knew that I would love you forever. Nothing could ever happen to change my love for you, nothing. You have given your father and I more joy than you shall ever know. Now that I have seen your firstborn child though, I am complete. Nothing more remains for me to do upon these shores." Nellas stroked Thranduil's cheek with the back of her fingers. "These days belong to you, to Anthelísse, and now to Legolas."

"You would leave us...leave me?" Thranduil cried, struggling with shock and disbelief. He saw the weariness in Nellas's eyes though, and remembered for the first time in a long time just how old his mother truly was. It was the crux of elvish agelessness that sometimes even elves themselves could forget how heavy the weight of eternity is.

"Believe me ion-nin, I would like nothing better than to keep you close to me now and for always." Nellas said, letting her hand fall from Thranduil's cheek to Legolas's. "But the world is for the young, and my place is with those who came before me in the Blessed Realm. Besides..." The queen winked, and a sudden flash of the wild, untamed maiden she had once been danced across her face. "...we will not be parted forever. One day, when you have grown old at heart and seen your own children welcome their children, you shall come and join your father and I in Aman, yes?"

"Of course I will Naneth, of course." Thranduil promised, leaning into his mother's embrace. The three generations stayed linked together that way for some time, listening to one another's hearts and the bubbling of the stream.

Some time later, Thranduil carried his sleeping son back through the encampment towards his and Anthelísse's tent. He had given orders that they would not move until two days hence, to give Anthelísse a chance to recover. And so most of the Greenwood elves were taking advantage of the time to explore the forest around, tell stories, sing songs and generally mingle. There was an air of some sadness in the camp that they were leaving their beloved mountainside city behind. There was also a measure of anticipation though, and curiosity as to what their new life in The Halls would look like.

Thranduil spotted a figure standing by themselves in the shadows between two tents though and frowned. He recognized Tharnor, the Master of Coin immediately by his mismatched green and brown eyes. The Silvan elf stood with his arms crossed and a scowl on his narrow face, a scowl that only deepened as Thranduil approached.

"Speak your mind and have done, Tharnor." Thranduil demanded crossly, keeping his voice down so as not to wake Legolas. The elfling had already demonstrated incredibly sharp hearing that made his naps rather prone to abrupt ends. "I will not endure your continued ill temper for the rest of eternity."

Tharnor's pale eyebrows flew upwards, and he swept a derisive gave over the sleeping princeling in Thranduil's arms. "You do not wish to know what is on my mind, Aran-nin. It is better that you continue on your way, and do not press me."

"I shall press you as far as I like to get answers from you, Master of Coin!" Thranduil whisper-shouted, his temper rising. He had had it up to the tips of his ears with the Silvan elf's sulking. "Either lay your grievances out before me now, or never so much as think them again for the rest of your days."

"You wish to hear my grievances so badly then?" Tharnor hissed. "Very well then, Oropherion, you shall hear them and hate me for it." He jabbed a long finger at sleeping Legolas. "My people have endured your house running roughshod over us entirely too far. First your father comes to us, little more than a vagrant of Doriath with a paltry hundred of you Sindarins in tow. Do we turn you away? No! Not only do we open our homeland to you, we accept your father as our king! That could be endured, even I can admit that your father was a rare figure among Sindarins. Even after Oropher led us nearly to ruin in the Last Alliance, we continued to support your house and your ascension as your father's heir. But how did you repay us?" Tharnor practically spat the words in Thranduil's face. "You return from Mordor with a Noldo bride! The Noldor have done nothing but sow wrath and ruin in their path since the day the kin-slayer Fëanor led them in rebellion across the sea. We Silvans above all can attest to the destruction of the Noldor upon these shores. They have done nothing but ignore and belittle us, the faithful inhabitants of Middle-Earth since they day their cursed boots touched the soil. Now you ask us to accept a prince of Noldo blood as heir to the throne of the Woodland Realm? Bah!" Tharnor punctuated his angry diatribe with increasing volume, heedless of the elfling who was even now tossing restlessly in Thranduil's arms. "We always believed that you would wed a Silvan, and thus reaffirm the partnership between your people and the true folk of the Greenwood. You were supposed to join with us, not set your rule apart by marrying with an elitist Noldo! You have distanced yourself from all the Silvan folk of the Greenwood, and now here is the proof!" Tharnor pointed accusingly at Legolas once again, finally waking the elfling. Legolas whimpered and began to cry, dropping all pretense of being asleep.

Thranduil was floored. Clutching his son to his chest, he was torn in a million different directions. A very large part of him wanted to lunge at Tharnor and tear the Silvan limb from limb. Another part wanted to turn and run away with Legolas, shielding his child from all the anger and darkness of the world. He had never imagined that any in the Woodland Realm would have borne him any ill will for marrying the one he loved.

"Aran-nin, are you alright?" A female voice sounded over Legolas's crying, and Thranduil recognized Thenniel. The russet-haired scout stood with a hand on the hilt of her dagger, sizing up Tharnor and evaluating the situation with a warrior's eye. Looking around, Thranduil realized that a number of elves were watching the gathering storm apprehensively.

Drawing himself up to full height, Thranduil subdued his horror and rage beneath the first defense that came to hand; a coldly imperial face.

"Thenniel, you and all present are to bear witness to what I have to say here and now." Turning a glacial gaze on Tharnor, Thranduil held Legolas close and rocked the infant to soothe him. "Tharnor son of Thirnen, you are hereby stripped of your rank as Master of Coin. No longer are you to serve on the council, nor are you to have any status within the Woodland Realm. I order you to report to Gurithon for assignment to the armed forces of the Greenwood; we have more need of sharp blades than we do of sharp tongues. If this is unacceptable to you, then you are to depart from my sight immediately and never return to dwell within the borders of the forest. This is my pronouncement and my decree as king."

The disgraced former Master of Coin stared long and hard at Thranduil with his mismatched eyes. When he did not move, Thenniel made a threatening advance toward him. With a minimal jerk of his head that might have been a bow, Tharnor submitted.

"If that is your wish, _Aran-nin_."

Without another word, Tharnor turned on his heel and stalked away. At a nod from Thranduil, Thenniel followed after him to ensure that he either reported to Gurithon or left the camp. The scout's long red braid swished back and forth behind her as she went.

Holding Legolas against his shoulder and rubbing his little back, Thranduil hushed the elfling until his piteous crying subsided. As he made his way toward their tent though, he could not help but look at the elves he passed in a new light. Was the smile of that Silvan elf as he passed genuine, or did they too hide resentment within their heart? Was Tharnor an outlier, or did more think the way he did? Thranduil suddenly felt immensely protective toward both Anthelísse and Legolas. He would do anything to protect them from harm, anything at all. That he swore no matter who threatened, be they orc, dwarf, man...or elf.


	25. Chapter 25 - Son of the Greenwood

**Happy weekend everyone! When I first began this story, there was some befuddlement as to the possibility of Legolas having a Noldo mother. After all, he certainly never gives any indications of being anything but a Sindarin elf (albeit one with many Silvan tendencies). This chapter hopefully explains how Legolas could feasibly have Noldor blood while still being the prince we know and love. Enjoy!**

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"Ah, look who it is my little leaf...it's Ada!"

Anthelísse's words brought a smile to Thranduil's face like nothing else could. Taking off his crown and setting it aside, he went to join his wife and son in what served as indoor gardens for The Halls of the Woodland Realm.

A vast array of mosses grew over almost ever surface, cave-dwelling flora that emitted faint green luminescence. The Silvan elves of old had carved beautiful reliefs into the walls of the underground garden, most of which were now enhanced by the lichens which grew along their features. It was an ancient place, one of the hidden echoes of the earliest days of Arda.

They had first arrived at the entrance to the Halls nearly six months ago. The old bridge which at one time had allowed Silvan elves to pass over a small river between the path and the gates had long since crumbled. It had taken some improvisation with ropes and fallen tree trunks to get Gurithon and a number of his scouts onto the front stoop of the Halls. After great effort, they prised the faded stone doors open and disappeared into the shadows beyond.

It had been nearly two hours later when Gurithon's smiling face had reappeared through the crack in the doors. The Captain of the Guard had declared the Halls safe and unspoiled, just as the Silvan folk had left them thousands of years ago. Across the makeshift bridge, Thranduil and Anthelísse had led the people of the Greenwood into their new home.

In the days since, every elf had devoted themselves entirely to the long process of restoring the Halls of the Woodland Realm. Although no foul creatures such as orcs had breached the stone doors since they were sealed, a number of cave dwellers had taken up residence in hidden nooks and crannies. Many of these were left undisturbed; the Firstborn Children of Eru had always lived in harmony with the other inhabitants of the world. Some though like a colony of bats had to be encouraged to find other lodgings in less useful caverns. It would not do to have bat guano carpeting the floors of the cellars.

The sheer enormity of the task before them meant one unexpected but no less welcome reprieve for Thranduil; a break from the politics of governing. The council had little to no purpose without a realm to order, and so rather than sit about a polished table the various councillors applied themselves to their areas of interest. Daeris spent all her days and nights ensuring the vast cellars of the Halls were stocked and organized. Erchelil had almost immediately immersed herself in the process of taming the many wild fungi growing in the underground gardens. Daerchon likewise had a small army of elves under his direction, carefully shelving all the scrolls and books from Emyn Duir's library in their new homes. Although the Halls might disguise any signs of life from the outside, the many chambers within buzzed with activity rivaling that of an overturned anthill.

Thranduil for his part both welcomed and cursed the long, busy days. Always having something or other that demanded his attention kept his mind from his mother's departure not a month past. Nellas had slipped away quietly one evening, with but a horse and two other elves to accompany her to the Havens. She had said her final goodbyes to Thranduil, Anthelísse and Legolas in private. Then she was gone, the dancing green lights of her eyes swallowed by the forest as she rode. Thranduil did not begrudge his mother her final journey, but he missed her terribly all the same.

The long days were as much a burden as a relief though for the time that they kept Thranduil away from his family. Anthelísse was almost as busy as Thranduil if not more as of late; a newborn elfling demands only the highest levels of attention from their doting parents. Legolas seemed to be no exception to the rule. With every day their son grew brighter, more attentive and more curious about the world around him. It would not be long now before he might begin crawling about under his own power.

With an adoring smile, Thranduil reached for his infant son. "Hello there ion-nin. Ah but you are a sight for sore eyes...and your beautiful mother as well."

"Your father is a flatterer, as always." Anthelísse raised an eyebrow coyly as she leaned in to greet Thranduil with a kiss. "How goes the restoration of the walkways?"

"Slowly." Thranduil said, not without a slight huff of exasperation. "Time has worn away many of the supporting stalagmites, crumbling entire sections and making them unstable even to work on. Shaping stone is not an easy art, but Vindair has proven himself quite capable."

"Small wonder, if what he said about having spent time among the dwarves is indeed true." Anthelísse commented, smiling as little Legolas stuck a finger into his father's cheek. Thranduil captured the tiny digit and kissed first it, then the hand to which it was attached. Legolas cackled with delight and poked Thranduil again, this time in the side of the nose.

"And how have you and our little leaf spent the day, meleth?" Thranduil asked, sitting down next to Anthelísse on a moss-covered bench. A small spring trickled nearby, echoing off the cavern walls and throughout the garden.

"We too have been busy." Anthelísse bit her lip then and looked away. "We went with Aislinn to speak to Maechenel...about cancelling the public coronation ceremony."

"What?! Cancelling the coronation ceremony, why ever would you do such a thing as that?" Thranduil shifted Legolas onto his lap, bouncing the elfling with his knee. Legolas thought this was great fun, and let out a string of "Uh-uh-uhs" as he bounced.

"You have been busy as of late, Thranduil, and have not had time to listen to the mood of the people as I have." Anthelísse said softly, watching her husband and son with love in her eyes. "I have long been thinking on Tharnor's words, as you told them to me."

Thranduil frowned deeply. "Anthelísse, surely you cannot have allowed the poisonous speech of that close-minded viper to disturb you. My mother has departed for the Havens, and you are by right the queen of the Woodland Realm now. I will see you crowned with all the proper ceremony as befitting the Lady of the Greenwood." He reached for her hand, carefully holding onto Legolas with the other as the elfling played with his toes inside their soft vellum boots.

"What does it mean to be a queen though, my love?" Anthelísse squeezed his hand. The faint glow from the cavern plants made her eyes look more black than blue. "Duty to the people, honor to their history, and a legacy for the future." She reached out and stroked Legolas's soft cheek. "Here is that legacy, but what legacy will our son truly have if he is not accepted by the people of the Woodland Realm?"

"They will accept him, they must!" Thranduil said fiercely. Anthelísse's words had stirred up the fears that he had tried time and time to forget since his unpleasant exchange with Tharnor. "He is our son, the rightful prince of the Woodland Realm."

"He is our son; yours...and mine." Anthelísse looked a little sad then, and Thranduil held her hand all the tighter. She squeezed once more, then let go and stood. Walking a short distance away, she hugged herself and studied the carvings on the cavern wall. "I am of the Noldor, Thranduil. The Silvan elves of this forest are worlds different from my people. They belong here, their history is written into the very bones of this place." Slowly she ran her fingers across the mossy engravings. "It is not just Tharnor who sees me as an outsider."

Thranduil stood, Legolas suddenly becoming squirmy in his arms. Looking around and deeming the gardens safe enough, Thranduil set him down onto the soft carpet of moss that covered the stone floor. Legolas stayed sitting upright for a moment before rolling over onto his front and trying to stuff a chubby fistful of moss into his mouth. Thranduil knew the plants were not poisonous though (having confirmed as much already a number of times over with Erchelil) and so he let his son have his fun.

"Who has said such things to you, meleth-nin?" Thranduil asked, coming to stand behind his wife and wrapping his arms around her waist. "Tell me, and I will see to it that spent the rest of their days scrubbing cobwebs from the far corners of the cellars!"

Anthelísse turned in Thranduil's arms, shaking her head but smiling despite herself. "Some things cannot be made to go away with but a single command, Thranduil. The Silvan elves are the majority in this realm, and it matters what they think of me, of you, and of Legolas." The golden-haired elf lady ran her arms up along Thranduil's until they met behind his neck. She caught and tucked a loose strand of flaxen hair behind his ears. "Daerchon and Maechenel would never say as much directly to me, but I know how to hear what is left unspoken. Even those who do not openly disapprove of me still see me as 'other', as an 'outsider'."

"Then surely a formal coronation could only help to dispel such thoughts from the minds of the people?" Thranduil asked. A squeal from Legolas made both he and Anthelísse check anxiously over their shoulders to assure themselves that their son was safe. The elfling had found a small snail clinging to one side of the stone bench and was trying to reach it. Thankfully the little creature was too high up for grabbing fingers to reach. It would only be a matter of moments though before Legolas got frustrated and started to whine though.

With a smile, Anthelísse leaned up to kiss Thranduil. "You are still young, my love." She said gently. "It is not beyond imagining that the centuries may eventually see the people of the Greenwood come to accept me. What I care about now though is that they accept Legolas, wholly and completely. Thranduil..." she looked down, then back up at him. "...we must raise our son as a Sindarin elf among Silvans, as you were raised. He cannot be brought up with the speech and mannerisms that will remind others of his Noldo mother."

"You cannot mean that...do you not mean to teach him to speak Quenya then, Anthelísse?" Thranduil asked. He knew how proud the Noldor were of their heritage, of their culture. Exiles from the Blessed Realm their people may be, the Noldor still had always clung fiercely to the emblems of the house of Finwë. Their language, adapted from the Vanyarin tongue of Aman and their many great lineages were sources of the utmost pride to them. Legolas being the nephew of Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor, Thranduil had never even imagined that Anthelísse would not teach her son all the customs and traits befitting a Noldo noble. He had always assumed that the two of them would both impart the bearings of their respective peoples to little Legolas, and that living among the Silvan elves of the Greenwood would fill in the third lineage. For some reason, the thought of his son not growing up proud of his Noldo blood upset Thranduil more than he could say.

"But...but what about his heritage?" Thranduil managed to ask, still at a loss for words. "Our son is a descendent of the mightiest houses of the Noldor, of a line of the High King! I would sooner have him raised in full knowledge of his Sindarin and Noldo ancestry before he learns the ways of the Silvans!"

A frustrated cry rose from Legolas, and Anthelísse disengaged herself from Thranduil's embrace. Going to their son, she picked up the little ellon with soothing words. Legolas sniffled, still straining to try and grab at the snail.

"He will know of his people on my side, make no mistake." Anthelísse said, but now Thranduil could hear the resigned determination in her words. This decision had not come easily to her, and he could tell that it was tearing his wife apart inside. "When he is old enough to understand the need for balance between our hopes and desires, and our obligations to the people. Until that time comes, and until he has established himself as a prince of the Woodland Realm, he must be cultured so as to remind people of his belonging to this place, rather than his differences from it. Legolas must be a true child of the Greenwood."

"Is there no way that he might..."

"It is better this way, Thranduil." Anthelísse interrupted, shifting Legolas against her shoulder. "Better for him and for his future all around. It would be kinder not to have him torn in two between such different cultures." She smiled ruefully. "You Sindarins are not so very different from the Silvans; your people have in the space of a single generation already become nearly indistinguishable from the native population of this forest." Anthelísse chuckled softly and patted Legolas's back. "We Noldo are much slower to change, far more set in our ways, and far more stubborn."

Seeing that he was not to win this debate, Thranduil sighed and went to lay a hand atop his son's head. Legolas squirmed around in his mother's arms and looked Thranduil straight in the eye. He had Anthelísse's nose and chin, Thranduil decided.

"Very well then, have it your way Anthelísse." Thranduil said. "When he is older and his mannerisms already established though, then you shall teach him of the Noldor. Agreed?"

"Agreed, meleth-nin." Anthelísse nodded, wincing with pained love as Legolas accidentally grabbed a hold of a lock of her hair.


	26. Chapter 26 - Gondor's Messenger

**Happy long weekend and Thanksgiving to all my fellow Canadian readers! This chapter is, as they say, the deep breath before the plunge into our final decent. For those who are wondering, I try to keep my fanfictions are close as possible to the actual canon of Tolkien. This requires some research, but I hope that it makes my stories even more plausible for filling in the gaps between what J.R.R actually wrote and what only exists in our imaginations. :-)**

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The laughter of an elfling echoed along the corridors of the Woodland Realm, lending an air of magic to the graceful caverns and passageways. Few sounds in all of Arda are so well documented for the sheer joy that they bring to those who are lucky enough to hear it. It was toward this sound that Galion hurried, the robes of the king's steward sweeping over polished stone floors in his wake.

When Galion came upon the royal family, he hesitated upon the chamber threshold. Such a scene of familial contentment greeted his eyes that the young steward was loathe to interrupt.

Thranduil and Anthelísse reclined on their favorite lounge couch, the king's silvery robes spilling over to pool on the floor with the queen's pale green gown. Thranduil's head lay in Anthelísse's lap, and her long clever finger were dancing among the strands of his hair. Aislinn, the queen's favored handmaiden sat nearby on a bench, her dark eyes flashing as she laughed in merriment at the scene before them.

In the center of the spacious room, a young elfling stood toe-to-toe with the much taller Captain of the Guard. Gurithon crouched in a loose wrestling posture, and the young prince Legolas was darting forward over and over trying to tackle one of the Silvan elf's legs. Every time young Legolas missed, Gurithon would retaliate by shooting out a hand and tickling the prince under an outstretched arm. The golden-haired ellon shrieked with laughter but kept on trying to get past the captain's nimble defences. From the sidelines Thranduil, Anthelísse and Aislinn cheered on one or both 'opponents' in the match.

Finally, Legolas got close enough to wrap an arm around one of Gurithon's knees. Gurithon feigned shock, then scooped up the prince over his shoulders. Legolas giggled and squirmed, but couldn't escape as Gurithon presented his captive to Thranduil and Anthelísse.

"What do you make of this, my lord and lady?" Gurithon asked with mock gravity. "Such a strange creature, and so short! Perhaps I ought to send it back to live amongst the dwarves where it belongs?"

With a laugh, Thranduil sat upright, taking care not to muss the elaborate weaving Anthelísse had done in his hair. "If that is a dwarf Gurithon, then it must be teased horribly by its kind for its utter lack of beard!"

"Ada, I'm not a dwarf!" Legolas cried, still squirming valiantly. With some effort he managed to lift himself up to grin at his father over Gurithon's shoulder. "See?" When Thranduil just smiled and quirked an eyebrow, the young prince appealed to his mother. "Naneth, don't let them send me away to live with the dwarves!"

"Fear not little leaf." Anthelísse laughed. "I shall not let anyone send you away. Besides, whatever would the dwarves do with so energetic a child?"

Galion smiled to himself, then sighed and straightened the front of his robes. The messenger waiting in the audience hall would not be kept long waiting. Clearing his throat, Galion made his presence known.

"Ah Galion." Thranduil said, waving the steward forward. "Come, no need to stand in the shadows." Seeing the younger elf's solemn expression the king frowned. "What is it, has Maechenel more complaints regarding the planning of Mereth Nuin Giliath?"

"No my lord." Galion said, bowing deeply. "Although Lord Maechenel does send his regrets that the Feast of Starlight needs must take place indoors this year on account of the weather. I have come to inform you that a human messenger has arrived from the forest road. He bears the crest of Gondor, and awaits you at the soonest convenience."

"A human?" Aislinn asked curiously. Galion felt the tips of his ears heat slightly as the Noldo handmaiden tossed a long black tress over one shoulder. He kept his face professionally aloof though. "This would be the first time in centuries that a mortal has actually sought an audience with this realm."

"The last time a human came before the throne of the Woodland Realm..." Thranduil started a thought, but let it hang. Last time, his father Oropher had been king, and it had been an emissary from Elendil seeking support for the Last Alliance. Anthelísse glanced sideways at him, and the thought passed between them. She reached out a hand to Gurithon, who set Legolas down and sent the prince to his mother's side.

Drawing in a deep breath, Thranduil stood. "Very well then. Galion, tell our guest that I will meet with him from the royal seat."

Once the steward had departed, Thranduil knelt down to eye level with his son. He recalled Nellas's words to him on the morning of Legolas's birth. _'As light and golden an ellon as Lúthien Tinúviel was dark and beautiful an elleth'._ His mother's description brought a smile to his face. Legolas really was a beautiful child, even by the lofty standards of elves. His enormous blue eyes were framed by long lashes the likes of which would make any elf maiden green with envy. Playing with Gurithon had brought a pink flush to his cheeks, and even the tousled disarray of his fine gold hair was endearing. But then, Thranduil was seeing through the eyes of a parent.

"What do you say, little leaf? Would you like to join your mother and I as we greet our human visitor?" Thranduil asked.

"O yes Ada!" Legolas exclaimed, bouncing on the spot with excitement. "I want to see the human too!"

"Yes _please_, ion-nin." Anthelísse reminded the bubbly elfling.

"Yes please Ada."

Thranduil chuckled. "Very well then. Shall we go down to the throne chamber then?" When Legolas nodded vigorously, Thranduil straightened and took his son's free hand. With Legolas between them, Thranduil and Anthelísse started toward the hall with Gurithon and Aislinn following behind.

They followed the many winding passages and subterranean stairways to come to the open chamber where the throne of the Woodland Realm sat. The beautifully carved seat had been transplanted from Emyn Duir with the elves when they had uprooted themselves nearly thirty years ago. It's twining back reached for the vast stone ceiling far above, and the twining embellishments were reminiscent of the horns of a stag. A second seat was built onto the side of the main throne; smaller and less embellished than the seat of the king. It had been at Anthelísse's abject insistence that a second throne the equal to the first had not been built. Yet another way in which the she tried to emphasize the realm's Sindarin king over its Noldo queen for the sake of the prince.

Once Thranduil and Anthelísse were settled, Thranduil called Legolas over to his side. The elfling didn't often get a chance to greet audiences from the royal throne, and was veritably humming with excitement. With a smile, Thranduil laid a hand on Legolas's small shoulder.

"Now Legolas, you must be very polite when I introduce you to our visitor. When I tell them your name, you may raise your head to greet them, and even put a hand to your heart if you like. You mustn't bow though, as you did when Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrian came to visit. They were our friends and also elvish nobility, so it was proper then. This is merely a messenger though, and you as a prince are of a higher station. You understand?"

"Yes Ada." Legolas said, his chin bobbing.

Legolas had been simply beside himself with excitement when he had been told some years ago that the lord and lady of Imladris were coming to visit. The excitement had dimmed somewhat when he found out that their three children, the Lady Arwen, Lord Elladan and Lord Elrohir were in Lothlorien visiting their grandparents at the time and could not come as well. Still, the mention of Elrond and Celebrian brought a happy gleam to the prince's eyes. He had been positively spoiled with affection and admiration by both Elrond and Celebrian during their time in the Woodland Realm.

"Ready, meleth-nin?" Anthelísse asked, her gaze flickering toward the causeway toward the front gates with a hint of anxiety. It was not just Thranduil who associated mortals with trouble.

Thranduil nodded. "Galion, send for the messenger."

A few minutes later, two guards approached along the causeway, flanking a human man between them. He was a somewhat unremarkable individual, save for the impressive scar that bridged his nose and puckered his cheeks. Thranduil was aware of the human tendency to regard such marks as badges of courage. Elves on the other hand saw such a marring as what came from a lack of due care on the battlefield.

Once he was led to the foot of the throne, the man saluted Thranduil with a banging of a fist to his iron breastplate and a bow. Sure enough, the armor bore the sigil of Gondor; a single tree beneath a spangling of seven stars.

"My name is Oren, and I bring greetings on behalf of Prince Eärnur of Gondor to you, Thranduil King of the Woodland Realm." The man spoke in a rumbling voice that brought to mind shifting gravel. "As well as this token of friendship from the arbors of the south." The man shifted and produced a small cedar box stamped with an unfamiliar crest from beneath his blue cloak. "This bottle of wine comes from the vineyards of Dorwinion, and is acclaimed as being of the finest flavors ever brewed in all the kingdoms of Man."

"Greetings to you Oren, servant of Gondor, and to your Prince Eärnur." Thranduil replied, leaning forward on his throne. The crown of the Woodland Realm poked him unexpectedly in the temple, and it took all of his elven restraint to keep a smooth face. "Myself, Queen Anthelísse and Prince Legolas accept your token of friendship and offer you the hospitality of the Woodland Realm. It has been some years since last a son of Men ventured beneath the eaves of our forest though. Come, what happenings in the world beyond have prompted your prince to seek us out now?"

Oren gave over the box of wine to Galion, who stood near the foot of the throne, before clearing his throat loudly. "Prince Eärnur sends word of dark happenings in the north, not far from your own borders, King Thranduil. The armies of Angmar have been on the move for the past year, and have in recent months overtaken the previously held Dunedain realms of Arthedain and Fornost. My prince Eärnur has marshalled an army to confront Angmar, and we have sent word to Elrond of Rivendell asking for his support in this campaign as well."

"And has Lord Elrond given you a response?" Anthelísse asked, her even tone hiding the concern that Thranduil knew was there. Elrond had long been like a brother to Anthelísse.

The scarred messenger looked momentarily surprised that an elf queen would respond first before her lord and husband. To his credit though, he quickly recovered himself and nodded. "Aye Your Majesty, we have word that Imladris had pledged a contingent of elf knights under the command of one Lord Glorfindel."

Thranduil frowned darkly, his grip on the royal scepter tightening. Legolas noticed his father's reaction and looked puzzled. The elfling had not yet learned the full history of the Last Alliance, although he likely would have by now if he paid his tutors half as much attention as he paid the little bow and arrows Gurithon had made him.

"And you have come to extract a similar pledge from the Woodland Realm I take it?" Thranduil asked. Exactly what he had feared was coming to pass. The very last thing he wanted in all of Arda was to embroil his people in yet another war that was not of their making.

The human called Oren bowed again. "That is my prince's request, Your Majesty. He also prays that you remember the proximity of your own realm to that of Angmar. The Hills of Evendim run directly between the northern borders of the Greenwood and the lands of Angmar. If none oppose the evil that grows in the north, there will be nothing to prevent Angmar from coming down and laying ruin to you and your people along with everyone else."

"I am aware of the geography of my realm, human." Thranduil replied evenly.

"Begging your pardon, King Thranduil." Oren deferred, but did not back away. "Prince Eärnur's request still stands though. Can we look to the Woodland Realm for support in the campaign against the forces of Angmar?"

Thranduil was about to utter a vehement and rather final refusal when he felt a pressure on his wrist. Anthelísse gazed long and beseechingly into his eyes. He knew what she wished; if Elrond was going into battle yet again against this new darkness, she did not want him to go alone.

"...I will consider your prince's request." Thranduil said at length. "You shall have your answer in three days hence. In that time, you are free to enjoy the hospitality of our realm. Galion." The steward reappeared as if by magic from the side of the throne. "See to it that our guest is quartered and attended to."

"Your Majesty." Oren bowed and turned to leave with Galion. Just as he was about to step down from the audience dias though, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Tales of the courage of the Woodland Realm are oft included in the retelling of the Last Alliance among our people. My generation and the generations before mine have grown up believing the wild elves of the north to be unmatched in their boldness on the field. I do hope I can pass the same tales on to my own children."


	27. Chapter 27 - Spears of Autumn

**Hello everyone, and happy weekend! It's time for Thranduil to lead his troops north to join the fight against the Witch King of Angmar. He's worried that this war will mean his death...little does he realize that what is coming would make his own death in battle seem far preferable. Enjoy!**

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Thranduil stared long and hard at the forest road, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. So they came to it; the moment he had been dreading for nearly a month now. Every morning and every evening just before and after dreams, Thranduil had tried to tell himself that this was not truly happening. Their smiths were not toiling to re-forge armor long unused, their archers were not fletching arrow after arrow to add to their quivers. Most importantly, he himself was not preparing to ride into a joined battle in the north, away from his wife and young son.

Forcing himself to arise and leave Anthelísse's side in bed each morning brought the undeniable truth with it though; the Woodland Realm was going to war once again. When Thranduil looked at his unclad torso in the mirror, he was starkly reminded of the horrors he and his people had seen before on the battlefield. The scars from where an orc had tried to kill him on the end of its spear were white and faded, old memories long put away. In all the years since the Last Alliance, Thranduil had never quite succeeded in convincing himself otherwise that Oropher would somehow have survived if he had not been distracted while coming to Thranduil's aid.

Now, moments away from departing for the war in the north in Angmar, Thranduil felt a sense of great doom on the horizon. Would he ever return to the Greenwood, the forest that had become his homeland? Was this to be his end, and the end of those who now chose to follow him? Thranduil had not obligated any of the elves of the Woodland Realm to join in this campaign. Rather he had let Oren speak to the people once they were assembled in the Great Hall. Much to Thranduil's dismay, the scarred human emissary had proven a passionate and convincing orator. In the end nearly six thousand elves had volunteered to join with the forces of Prince Eärnur of Gondor and Lord Elrond in the north. Thranduil had had no choice but to bow to bravery of his people.

A tug on his cloak broke Thranduil from his morose silence. Little Legolas was warmly wrapped against the chilly air, one of his pet elkhounds leaning against his side. The pair of dogs had been a gift from Thranduil and Anthelísse to their son on his last begetting-day. Although they were not allowed in the upper halls of the Woodland Realm, the hounds rarely left Legolas's side once outdoors. Thranduil almost smiled at how small Legolas seemed side-by-side with the lanky animals.

"Ada, can't Naneth and I come with you?" Legolas asked, his blue eyes wide and pleading. The elfling had learned some years ago just how persuasive that expression could be with his adoring parents. "Aren't I big enough to help you?"

Thranduil knelt down and gathered up his son to him in a tight embrace. "Ah, my brave little leaf. You are most certainly big enough to be a great help to anyone. But I am sad to say that I lost the argument over who needed your help more to your mother." Thranduil looked up at Anthelísse, who stood at the gates of the Woodland Realm in a long cloak of embroidered silver thread. She smiled wanly, but the paleness of her cheeks had nothing to do with the coming winter. "She insisted that her need of someone to help her in governing the realm supersedes my own. Besides..." Thranduil glanced around and lowered his voice. "...Besides, the people need their prince, yes?"

"But Ada..."

"No buts, ion-nin. Promise me that you will help your mother when I am gone?" There was so much more that Thranduil wanted to tell his son; advice for the future, assurances of his undying love, promises that he would always be with them. Some quiet warning in his heart told Thranduil that never again would he see Legolas and Anthelísse after today.

Words did not suffice for such a parting. Instead, Thranduil held Legolas close to his heart once more before letting the elfling go. Legolas seemed to know that something was amiss, and his lower lip quivered slightly.

"When will you come back, Ada?" He asked, his light childish voice shaking.

"Ada will be home when the snows melt, little leaf." Anthelísse reassured Legolas, wrapping her arms around her son from behind. "Until then, it will just be you, me, Aislinn and Galion."

Rising to his feet, Thranduil's armor hissed and slid across itself like a metallic snake skin. This was a new suit of armor, made to fit like a glove. The breastplate and shoulder guards Thranduil had worn thousands of years ago in the Last Alliance had been mauled beyond recovery by the orc's spear that had left him so scarred.

Anthelísse gave Legolas's shoulders another quick squeeze before stepping forward into Thranduil's arms. She smelled like beeswax candles and moss, a scent she had gradually adopted over her years as queen of the Woodland Realm. Vaguely Thranduil remembered how she had smelled when first he met her as Lady of the Noldor; of morning mist and night air. Strange how time could change a person.

"Come back to us." Anthelísse whispered in his ear, holding him tight.

"...I will." Thranduil said softly, wondering if he would be able to make good on such a claim.

"Come back to me in the spring Thranduil, and perhaps we might give Legolas a little brother or sister." Anthelísse added, dropping a kiss laden with promise on Thranduil's cheek. The two of them leaned their foreheads together, then kissed long and deeply.

"You know I would like nothing better in the whole wide world." Thranduil smiled at Anthelísse. "Until then, I leave our little leaf in your keeping, as well as the care of the Woodland Realm."

Suddenly, Anthelísse's sea-blue gaze turned sharp and clear. "Do not do to me what your father did to your mother, or I swear by the Valar that I will hunt you across the length and breadth of both Arda and Aman. Even the Halls of Mandos shall know no peace, for I shall hammer at their doors until Lord Mandos himself has no choice but to release you."

Startled by Anthelísse's sudden and vehement declaration, Thranduil nodded. "For the sake of the peace of Mandos's halls, I shall do everything in my power to return to you, meleth-nin."

"Good." Anthelísse smiled. She stepped back and took Legolas under her arm. The golden prince clung to his mother's leg, staring up at Thranduil with glassy eyes. Thranduil knew that if he did not turn away now, he never would.

And so he turned back to the forest road. In a long column, the troops of the Woodland Realm awaited their king. Pennants of green and gold fluttered from their newly-forged spear tips. Thranduil had learned that much from their situation at the Battle of the Last Alliance; never again would the warriors of the Greenwood have to choose between an early charge and hiding behind the spears of others.

"Soldiers of the Woodland Realm!" Thranduil shouted aloud, his voice carrying through the treetops and echoing along the road. "We have been called upon to fight against the darkness that plagues Middle-Earth once again, and once again you have answered that call. Let no man, dwarf or creature of evil ever dare question the courage of the elves. We ride now to the lands of Angmar under the shadow of Gundabad, let those who would serve Morgoth, Sauron and their ilk tremble and despair!"

_"Gurth enin goth!"_ (Death to the enemy!) The six thousand elven warriors shouted, Gurithon leading the cry from the head of the column. Their voices shook the very leaves of the trees, sending a last shower of gold and red falling to the forest floor.

"Onward north!" Gurithon shouted the order at a nod from Thranduil. As one single unit, the Greenwood army turned about face on the road and headed east. They would ride beyond the eastern borders of the forest, at which point they would turn north and follow the space between the forest and the Grey Mountains toward Angmar.

Mounting his horse, Thranduil paused and looked back to the gates of the Halls. Anthelísse raised a hand in farewell, her golden hair falling like a river over her arm. Legolas waved, still clinging to his mother and holding back tears. One of his elkhounds came and licked the elfling's face though, and Legolas was momentarily distracted. Thranduil met Anthelísse's eyes once more...then turned his face to the north.

At the end of the road awaited the forces of Prince Eärnur...and war.


	28. Chapter 28 - The Nazgûl's Talons

**Action lovers rejoice; battle is upon us! And Glorfindel-lovers will probably have something to smile about too with this chapter. **

**As far as the Nazguls go, the identity of two was only ever known; the Witch King of Angmar and Khamul, his second in command. I did a little digging into the history of Numenor, and came up with a viable candidate for one of the other Nazgul. Why do you care? Read and find out... :D**

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"A peaceful sight, is it not?"

Gurithon had approached Thranduil with his characteristic stealth, meaning the king had had only the briefest of warnings that his Captain of the Guard was nearby. Thranduil turned away from the misty surface of Lake Evendim where he had been watching the hills ripple and dance in their own reflections.

"For now." Thranduil replied, almost wistfully. "Soon the waters of Nenuial shall run red with blood I fear."

Gurithon placed a reassuring hand on Thranduil's shoulder. "You are pessimistic, Sapling. By all reports Prince Eärnur and the men of Gondor are here in force, as are many of the Eldar of Lindon. Oren tells me that the main army will meet Angmar and his servants in the west, at which point the Gondorian cavalry shall attack Angmar's side from the hills. We need only await them and rout the survivors if they make it this far east."

"So you were actually paying attention to Eärnur's messenger when they arrived this morning? By the glaze of your eyes I would have sworn you were in reverie." Thranduil raised an eyebrow sideways at his oldest and most loyal friend.

"I can multitask with the best of them, my lord."

Despite himself, Thranduil chuckled. "Indeed." With one last look at the calm of Lake Evendim, the king of the Woodland Realm gestured toward the camp. "Come, shall we walk?"

Thranduil and Gurithon spent the remainder of the morning inspecting the encampment and the six thousand elven warriors within. Everywhere they saw blades being polished to a high gleam, armour being tested and muscles being stretched. The warriors of the Greenwood were ready for battle at any moment. According to the missive from Prince Eärnur, they could likely expect Angmar to attempt an eastern retreat sometime in the night. Very likely the armies of the Witch King and the combined forces of Gondor, the Dunedain and Lindon were even now joined in battle.

They had had some interesting news though; Imladris's contingent would meet the Woodland Realm at Lake Evendim, coming up from the south. By all reports Elrond himself would not be leading their troops; it seemed the Last Alliance had soured the half-elven lord on battle. Instead a rather legendary figure had been appointed to lead the troops in Elrond's stead; Lord Glorfindel himself. The last time Thranduil had met Glorfindel, the two of them had had a rather unfortunate misunderstanding in the courtyards of Imladris. As such, Thranduil fully intended to give Anthelísse a piece of his mind when (and if!) he returned to the Greenwood. After all it had been on Elrond's behalf that she had urged Thranduil to join the campaign in the north.

They came upon Thenniel on the edges of the encampment, hard at work warming up theirs archers for battle. The fire-headed Silvan elf had been promoted to the position of lieutenant by Thranduil after her part in detecting the threat to Emyn Duir. She greeted Thranduil with a respectful bow and Gurithon with a smile that could have melted the snow-caps of the Misty Mountains.

"Thenniel." Thranduil said. "Well then, have you decided how best to place our archers for when Angmar comes?"

Thenniel nodded. "Yes my lord." She turned and pointed to a natural tunnel formed between the Hills of Evendim. "You see that pass? It will present a perfect vantage point and high ground for engaging the retreating forces of Angmar. I have spoken with Gurithon and he agrees, we will station archers on both sides of the hills and rain our arrows down upon the filth as they flee."

"Excellent. I leave the ordering of our ranged troops to you then." Thranduil said, satisfied. "Gurithon?"

"Yes Lord Thranduil?" Gurithon asked.

"You shall be stationed on the hills with Thenniel and her archers to begin with." Thranduil tried not to smile as he watched Gurithon's eyes light up. "Once the enemy is in sight, you are to ride down and join me on the field with a detailed account of their numbers. Agreed?"

"Gladly, my lord." They may have been on the eve of battle, but the Captain was beaming like an elfling on the Solstice morning.

A horn rang out clear and mellow across the hills, its echo causing the faintest of tremors on the surface of the lake. The sound was undeniably elven. Nearly every head in the camp turned to the south, tracking the call of the horn to its source with inhuman accuracy.

Thenniel shaded her eyes and smiled fiercely. "Imladris is here it seems." She said, her keen vision picking out the banner of the Hidden Valley even at a distance.

Following the Silvan lieutenant's gaze, Thranduil too could just pick out riders on the horizon. A full seven thousand from the looks of things, all of them members of the famed elf-knights of Rivendell.

The sight both lifted and darkened Thranduil's spirits. It was good to have allies...but he was not looking forward to dealing with the proud and powerful Glorfindel. It would not do to not be present upon the mighty elf lord's arrival though. Even a king could respect the reputation of the Golden Flower of Gondolin.

"Shall we?" He spoke to Gurithon. "If I must play politics with Elrond's champion, then you are by no means getting off easy either."

"You honor me as always, my king." Gurithon chuckled, rolling his eyes ever so slightly.

As it turned out, they had little time to actually exchange pleasantries with Glorfindel and the troops of Imladris. Thranduil had just barely seen Glorfindel ushered into the royal pavilion and gotten seated with a goblet of Dorwinion in his hand when a second horn call rang throughout the camp. This one was by no stretch of the imagination of elvish make though. This was an ugly sound, the strangled staccato of an orcish war-call.

"What is this?!" Thranduil exclaimed, standing less than ten seconds after he had sat down. The wine in his goblet swished dangerously and he carelessly slammed it down on a nearby side table. "Eärnur informed us that we could expect Angmar no sooner than nightfall, at the very earliest!"

Glorfindel cocked his head, flaxen blonde hair parting around his slanting ears. The reborn lord of Gondolin waited as a second horn blast came to them through the walls of the pavilion. When Thranduil opened his mouth to speak, Glorfindel held up a finger to ask for silence. Thranduil would have been livid at such a gesture if he weren't so alarmed.

"That is not Angmar." Glorfindel declared at length, standing with the liquid grace of a cat. One of the last remaining Noldor in Middle-Earth, Thranduil realized the similarity of Glorfindel's bearing to Anthelísse's. Thoughts of his wife and son still Thranduil and brought him unnatural clarity of mind.

"If not Angmar, then who?" He asked quietly.

"...Herumor." Glorfindel spoke the name with grim certainty. "Only once before have I heard that horn, and it is without a doubt the horn of the cursed Black Númenórean."

"I do not understand." Thranduil admitted, signalling for his servants to bring his armor. They would not have much time, judging by the distance of that menacing horn's call. "If this Herumor is a fallen Númenórean, how could a mortal such as he be threatening us now?"

"Because he is no longer mortal." Glorfindel had arrived already arrayed in his full battle armor. He moved to the entrance of the tent, back to Thranduil and arms folded. "He has fallen further than you know, Thranduil son of Oropher. Possibly almost as far as he who is now called the Witch King of Angmar." He paused to let his words sink in. "Long have I suspected that Herumor joined the ranks of the Nine, the Nazgûl, after he fled Númenór."

One of the servants working to outfit Thranduil into his molded greaves let out a silent gasp. Thranduil felt much the same himself. To have not one but two of the Nazgûl, Sauron's nine darkest servants arrayed in battle against them certainly changed the face of things. Gurithon looked positively ill where he stood to one side of the pavilion, fingering the hilt of his sword.

"Besides the horn you say you recognize, what cause have you to believe that this Herumor is indeed bearing down upon us now, Lord Glorfindel?" Thranduil asked, pulling his hands into reinforced leather gloves. He flexed his fingers several times, readying them for his own sword.

"Because it makes sense." Glorfindel replied, still with his back to Thranduil at the entrance. "Herumor was long thought lost in the south, perhaps in Harad. He had ties to Angmar even when he dwelt in Númenór though. No, I would not doubt for a minute that Herumor, after accepting power from Sauron, returned in stealth to add to the growing power of Angmar in the north."

"Then we shall just have to match Eärnur and the elves of Lindon in our battle." Thranduil said with dark determination. "They are met in battle against Angmar, and we shall deal with this lesser Nazgûl for our own part."

"Take care not to underestimate Herumor, King Thranduil." Glorfindel warned, finally turning to face him. The elf lord's blue eyes were ageless, but careworn. "He has not endured this long without being both wily and resourceful."

"I underestimate nothing, Glorfindel GoldenFlower." Thranduil replied. "I merely have faith in the combined forces of the Woodland Realm and Imladris."

It was exactly the sort of thing his father would have said, and for a moment Thranduil felt the spirit of Oropher was with him. As he accepted his sword and mounted his horse, Thranduil said a silent prayer to Oropher, wherever he might be.

_'Father, be with me on the field of battle, as you were so many thousands of years before. You laid down your life for my sake, and I will gladly do the same for the sake of my own child. Come what may, let what happens here today bring in a better world for him.'_

Side-by-side with Glorfindel, Thranduil rode to the head of the army. In the sparse minutes since the horn of Herumor had been heard, the armies of the Greenwood and Imladris and arrayed themselves on the shores of Lake Evendim, ready and waiting. Gurithon nodded to Thranduil, then rode off into the hills to meet with Thenniel and her archers. Thranduil watched the Silvan elf go with a feeling of foreboding.

A breeze rippled the flags on the spears of the army, alighting strips of blue and green in the chilly air. The low rumble of hundreds upon hundreds of feet made the very earth shiver. Their enemy would soon be upon them. Thranduil only hoped they could deal with this Herumor before any sign of Angmar from the west. If Angmar managed to overpower the Gondorians and came upon them early, they would be trapped between the vice-like pincers of two Nazgûls and their troops.

Over the hills to the north, the first signs of the enemy showed themselves. Like black locusts, hundreds of goblins, orcs and trolls came spilling into the valley. Thranduil's grip tightened on his sword, and he counted as fast as he could from afar.

"So few?" One of Glorfindel's captains asked, speaking up from behind them. "I count only eight hundred, my lord."

"Pah, we could dispatch as many without so much as emptying our quivers!" Another elf shouted. Thranduil slipped and let a sardonic smile touch his lips. If this was all this Herumor had to boast, then Angmar was in a sorrier state as far as allies went that they had imagined.

"Wait..." Glorfindel had his head cocked again, listening.

"Whatever is it now, Lord Glorfindel?" Thranduil asked cheerfully. "Concerned that perhaps an army of field mice is coming to flank us? For that is what these goblins shall surely be beneath our blades." The comparison earned Thranduil a rush of appreciative laughter from among the ranks of the Greenwood.

Suddenly, a roar cut the air like a hundred bull moose in heat. The elves' laughter died immediately, and Glorfindel looked at Thranduil with a morbid half-smile.

"Not field mice, King Thranduil." He said. "A dragon."


	29. Chapter 29 - Fire and Ruin

**Happy Halloween! This chapter is full of darkness and danger, perfect for a day like today don't you think? Just a quick warning, the end of the chapter is a bit graphic (we're so mean to poor Thranduil...!). **

**Another note, I'm on a three week break from school, so chapters might start coming thick and fast as we progress towards the end. Enjoy!**

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"A dragon?"

Thranduil's blood turned to ice in his veins. Another roar came trumpeting over the Hills of Evendim, sending a shudder through the ranks of the Greenwood and Imladris. The sound seems to bolster Herumor's hoard though; the hundreds of goblins and orcs under the Black Númenórian-turned-Nazgûl gained in speed as they bore down upon them.

Then the beast itself came into view, winding along the spine of the hills like an enormous serpent. It was a creature both curious and fearsome, fully the length of a dozen horses laid nostril to tail and taller than a troll. The dull autumn light made it grey scales glint like a multitude of tiny war-shields. Even from afar Thranduil could see the smoke trailing from its leering mouth.

From atop his white horse, Glorfindel let out a hiss of distaste.

"A longworm, some foul spawn of Scatha by the look of it." Glorfindel said, reaching for the hilt of his sword. "The Grey Mountains north of here have long been plagued by The Great Worm and its filth."

"Not Scatha himself though?" Thranduil asked, careful not to let any fear creep into his voice.

Glorfindel shook his head. "No, this worm is a juvenile if the size is any indication. Do not take any ease though!" The elf lord said sharply, more to his troops than to Thranduil. "Young dragons can be just as bloodthirsty if not more than their mature cousins!"

"No need to be too reassuring." Grumbled Thranduil, drawing his own sword. The blade slid free of its sheath with a clear ring. "Baraniel." He spoke to the elf to his left. "Sound the charge, and signal Thenniel to take the shot now before the armies meet. Tell her not to antagonize the dragon until it gets close though, else wise it may turn its full attention on her and the archers before we can distract it with cold steel."

"Aran-nin." Baraniel nodded, then raised her horn to her lips. First she blew a series of staccato notes to signal Thenniel, followed by a long, pure call. Raising his sword above his head, Thranduil readied his army for the charge. The horn of Imladris sounded out and mingled with the call of the Greenwood. The two elvish war-horns filled the valley with music; an eerily beautiful herald of coming battle.

With Thranduil and Glorfindel at the head, the combined army surged forward to meet Herumor's forces. _'This is how the Last Alliance should have been.' _Thranduil thought as they rode along the length of Lake Evendim. Elves fighting alongside elves, together as a cohesive unit instead of divided and uncoordinated. He wondered if Glorfindel had led the Noldor instead of Gil-Galad if perhaps things would have ended differently that day for himself and his father. Maybe Oropher and even Gil-Galad himself would have lived. Or then again maybe they all would have died, leaving Anthelísse without her brother or her future husband_. 'Anthelísse... '_

Then all thoughts were shattered and fell away as they came crashing against the tide of orcs.

The orcs fell by the dozens before them, their black blood soon wetting the ground and the blades of elvish swords. Elves have always been and will always be the superior to nearly every race on the field of battle by sheer virtue of their natural grace and dexterity. Only a handful of notable warriors of the races of humans or dwarves throughout history have ever been compared to the elves as their equals. Needless to say, the goblins and orcs posed little to no difficulty for the elf-knights of Imladris or the warriors of the Greenwood. They were not what Thranduil was worried about though...

As the orcs met the elves in battle, the dragon came loping across the hilltops towards them. A shower of arrows from Thenniel and her archers turned the worm aside from the main battle though. Thranduil shouted aloud with dismay, anger and some small measure of relief when he saw this. Thenniel had disobeyed his order to leave the dragon be until it was distracted by the battle. In doing so she had saved the elves on the field from the dragon's wrath...but had placed herself, Gurithon and the archers directly in the focus of its wrath.

There was nothing Thranduil could do for them now though. Turning away from the sudden burst of fire as the dragon reared toward the archers, he ducked an orc's crude sword. With superhuman reflexes Thranduil turned the duck into a rising stab, gutting the orc with one smooth motion. The creature blinked in shock before toppling backward. Thranduil met Glorfindel's eye between the whirlwind of battle and nodded fiercely. They may not have any particular love for one another, but the two elves could certainly appreciate a capable comrade in arms.

The dragon roared again, throwing more than one elf off their complex fighting forms. Thranduil risked a quick glance and narrowed his eyes in satisfaction. Someone had managed to put an arrow into one of the dragon's eyes, half-blinding it. A number of small figures could be seen scattering across the hilltop, diving for cover behind any available boulders to avoid the maddened dragon's fiery breath. Thranduil only hoped that Gurithon and Thenniel would find a way to either kill the dragon or get its attention away from themselves.

A trumpeting bellow on the battlefield itself demanded Thranduil forget the dragon for the time being though. The bulk of Herumor's small army may have been orcs and goblins, but as the elves killed their way past the front lines they were met by a number of bull mountain trolls. How the Nazgûl could command such dull-witted creatures Thranduil had no idea. The trolls swung enormous clubs in wide swaths as they lumbered forward, annihilating orcs, goblins and elves alike. The dexterity of the elves was somewhat lessened in effect compared to such sheer brutality.

"Alae!" (Look!") One of the elf-knights from Imladris cried out, pointing with his long spear past the trolls.

At the rear of the orc army, surrounded by what Thranduil could now see was a vanguard of trolls, the servant of darkness who had once called himself Herumor rode on a night-black warg. The Nazgûl carried a long double-ended glaive, a lethal weapon which he whirled overhead with an ominous whizzing sound. Seemingly unconcerned that his army was being for the most part decimated by the elves, Herumor spurred his dark warg mount forward.

Another roar from the dragon echoed throughout the valley, and Thranduil was torn. Two very deadly foes were confronting them at once; the dragon on the hilltop and the Nazgûl with his troll minions. If they did not deal with Herumor and his foul creatures now, they would find themselves trapped between one Nazgûl and another with the expected retreat of Angmar from the west.

"Thranduil!" Glorfindel emerged from the fray, his sword dripping black orc blood. The golden elf lord looked both fierce and resplendent, as if he had been reborn for this single purpose of fighting evil. Glorfindel's horse waded through the battle, it's white mane streaking in the breeze and its nostrils flared almost as ferociously as its rider's.

"Glorfindel." Thranduil took advantage of the brief calm in the eye of the storm to point with his sword at Herumor. "Will he die like a mortal if we strike him down?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "No, he will not. He will flee though, especially if he thinks he has lost the upper hand..." The Noldo looked at Thranduil pointedly, then at the hilltop where the dragon was terrorizing Thenniel and her archers.

Thranduil caught the meaning and grinned darkly. "Even a Nazgûl cannot stand on only one leg." He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. "You will be able to hold off Herumor in the meantime?"

"Count on it." Glorfindel assured Thranduil. His golden hair rippled like a pennant behind him, and the elf lord caught Thranduil's wrist in a grim clasp as he turned to leave. "Good luck Oropherion, and be careful. It does not do to trifle with a dragon."

"Be careful yourself, Goldenflower." Thranduil said. Then, steeling himself, he raised his voice and called to his army.

"The orcs have fallen, leave the trolls to the Knights of the Valley. We must help our archers, and send that dragon back into whatever foul hole it crawled out from!"

The rallying cry from the Greenwood army was somewhat less than enthusiastic; nobody wanted to fight a dragon up close. They followed Thranduil though when he led the charge up the side of the valley toward where the dragon had Thenniel, Gurithon and their archers pinned down.

The dragon reared up from where it had been trying to dig cornered elves out from beneath a rocky overhang. It peeled its horrible maw back from rows of needle-sharp teeth with a leering grin. Thranduil's heart gave a painful clench of fear in his chest, but he did not shy away.

"Back, back darkspawn!" He shouted, charging at the dragon directly. Gathering his legs beneath himself on his horse's back, the elf king sprang. For a moment he traced a graceful arc through the air. Then he landed blade-first on the dragon's side, driving his sword into the juncture beneath its wing.

The dragon let out a howl of pure rage. A number of arrows showered its head now that the archers were no longer pinned down, several of them lodging around its face and nostrils. Thranduil spotted Gurithon emerging from behind a boulder and felt a moment's relief. Then the dragon gave an almighty shake and Thranduil lost his grip on the hilt of his sword.

It was not a far fall to the ground, but hitting the ground knocked the air out of Thranduil's lungs all the same. Briefly winded, he struggled to get his numb legs to move as the dragon reared up and sucked in a breath.

"Thranduil!"

Thranduil didn't know who it was that shouted his name, but he clearly heard the panic in their voice. Acting on instinct, he lifted his arm and tried to shield himself with his cloak. An arrow whistled out from overhead and caught the dragon in the nose just as it opened its maw and let out a fiery blast.

That single little arrow saved Thranduil's life. It threw the dragon off just enough that the longworm's fire did not completely envelope him in an inferno. Instead the dragon's head cocked involuntarily to one side, sending a gout of white-hot death raging only inches past the elf king.

A dragon's breath is one of the hottest elements known in all of existence, even over the fires of a dwarven forge. Thranduil could see nothing but white, and his eyes stung as if they had been stabbed out. He tried to squeeze his eyelids shut but his entire face felt numb. Then the fire ended, and so did the numbness.

In its place was a pain such as Thranduil had never known before in all the thousands of years of his long life. His face felt like it was on fire, the skin burning and every nerve screaming in agony. Dimly he was aware that he was thrashing on the ground, and a roaring filled his ears. Was it the dragon, or the maddened pulse of his own heart? He wanted to die, he wanted to live, he wanted only for this unimaginable pain to end. Any torment in the world could not have been more unendurable than this. Thranduil felt he would go mad if he had to exist even for another second in this tortured state.

Something touched him, and the agony that brought nearly broke Thranduil. He was dimly aware of his own agonized screaming, and the shouts of other around him. Then strong, sure fingers pinched a nerve in his neck, and all went mercifully black.


	30. Chapter 30 - On the Wings of Doom

**Surprise! Thanks to my time off, there will be new LEQ chapters posted bi-weekly! I'm simply cannot wait to show you the end I've plotted for this fan-fiction. In my not-so-humble opinion, it will hopefully lead into the Thranduil we meet in The Desolation of Smaug, as well as Hobbit!Legolas and Tauriel.**

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"Will he live?"

Gurithon watched Siroth as the Sindarin healer pinned the final wrap of gauze around his patient's head. Thranduil lay still on the camp bed, nearly unrecognizable beneath a thick mask of bandages. He had yet to awaken since Gurithon had knocked him out on the battlefield, and for that Gurithon was very thankful.

The battle against Herumor and his longworm pet dragon had turned shortly after Thranduil's ill-fated rescue. The arrow which had saved Thranduil's life had done more than anyone first guessed. Lodged in the dragon's nostril, it's bodkin tip had actually succeeded in piercing the creature's brain. When the dragon first began weaving like a raccoon drunk on elderberries, everyone had been bewildered. Realization and elation dawned though when the behemoth staggered to its knees. Gurithon had just barely had enough time to drag an unconscious Thranduil out of the way before the dying dragon crashed to the ground.

Siroth secured a loose end of bandaging under itself and straightened up. "I believe so. He survived the initial shock, and the burns did not reach the bone. He will never see out of that eye again though."

Grimly, Gurithon beheld the elf who had metamorphosized over the years from an erstwhile prince to his dear friend and King. Would Oropher even be able to recognize his own son if he were here now? He had seen the extent of the damage done to Thranduil's face by the dragon's fiery breath. It would be a sight that would haunt him the length of his everlasting life. When he closed his eyes, he still heard Oropher's final words to him before the Last Alliance.

_"If the worst should happen, watch over him for me, Gurithon. He will need guidance ien the years ahead, and if I cannot be there for him then I entrust that role to you." _

_'I am sorry Oropher...I failed both you and him.'_ Gurithon thought miserably to himself.

Still, the day had not been entirely lost. Glorfindel had engaged Herumor in what would no doubt be lauded as a titanic duel by the bards of Imladris. The reborn lord of Gondolin and the Nazgúl had by all reports nearly cleared the battlefield in their struggle to overpower one another. In the end though, the death of the longworm had broken Herumor's assault. The lesser Nazgúl had retreated away into the Hills of Evendim, taking with him what remained of his orcs.

Now they waited by the shores of Lake Evendim for any word of the battle between Angmar and Prince Eänur. The sun would soon be setting; if there were any stragglers they would soon be coming this way. Outside the king's tent the army waited in tense silence. Word of Thranduil's injury had not yet spread, but most everyone knew that something was wrong.

When Glorfindel parted the entrance flap and stepped into the tent, silence greeted him. The elf lord was spattered with dark blood, his warrior braids undone. He looked exhausted, more so when he looked at the still figure on the bed.

"I am sorry to hear of your king's condition. Is there anything that myself or my people can down to be of assistance?" Glorfindel said, slowly peeling off his chain mail gloves.

"Unless you can restore his sight or heal his flesh?"Siroth shook his head.

"We should send word to the queen..." Thenniel spoke from where she had been standing silently in a corner of the tent. Long tendrils of scarlet hair still stuck to her neck from the heat of the dragon's breath as it had tried to dig her and her archers out of cover.

"Queen Anthelísse is a well regarded healer in her own right, perhaps she could do something for Thranduil?" added Siroth. He and Anthelísse had butted heads in the past over the jurisdiction of 'court healer', but the two still respected one another's skill.

Gurithon was just about to third the motion when Glorfindel interrupted.

"No! No you mustn't alert your queen to King Thranduil's condition if you think there is even the slightest chance she would try to come to his side!"

"Why ever not, Lord Glorfindel?" Gurithon asked. Frowning, he gestured to Thranduil's comatose form. "I dare say Thranduil could use the skilled care of his wife at a time like this..."

Glorfindel shook his head even more vehemently, his golden hair falling about his face. "If you summon your queen here, she will likely try to come by the most direct route; past Mount Gundabad. If Angmar and his retreating forces do not come directly into our blockade, they will most probably scatter south, toward the mountain. That entire area will not be anything even remotely approaching safe for years to come!"

"We could recommend Queen Anthelísse take the longer road by way of the Grey Mountains, as we did coming here?" suggested Thenniel.

Again Glorfindel was shaking his head. "No, do not underestimate the risks a person will take to reach a loved one in need. I beg you, Captain Gurithon, do not send word to your queen until we are more certain of Angmar and his minions' movements."

With a sigh, Gurithon looked to Siroth and then Thenniel. Beholding Thenniel's steady, doe-eyed gaze, his heart ached for Thranduil. If he were injured, he knew he would want Thenniel by his side above all others. But even more than that, he knew he wouldn't be able to rest easy if she were to put herself in harms way getting there.

"As you say, Lord Glorfindel. We shall hold off on alerting Queen Anthelísse for the time being. I just wish there were something we could do for Thranduil in her stead..."

"If I may, I have some skill at healing from my days spent in Gondolin's citadel. I am no Elrond, but with your leave Siroth I might be able to soothe your king's wounds somewhat."

Outside the tent, they did not see a lone figure step away from where they had stood listening to the conversation within. The sentry moved with purpose towards the station where the army kept their messenger pigeons. The gathering shadows of evening hid their face from passers by, but the torchlight reflected mismatched eyes of green and brown.

**OoOoO**

Anthelísse was sitting in the moss gardens of the underground palace when Galion came to find her. She had Legolas settled on her lap, reading aloud from a book of Silvan poems. The young prince squinted at the Tëngwar character on the page, an expression of fierce concentration pursing his eyebrows. It was a look that brought to mind his father and father's mother with near alarming accuracy.

"A shifting face of Tilion's pale vess...vess..." Legolas glared at the troublesome word on the page as if he would very much like to take it out to the archery range and shoot it full of holes.

"Vessel, ion-nin." Anthelísse corrected Legolas, tapping the book lightly. "Remember how the 'e' and the 'l' after it just make the one sound."

"Vessel." Legolas repeated. "Naneth, what's a vessel?"

"Excuse me my lady..." Galion interrupted. Normally he was more reticent to disrupt the queen when she and her son were at their lessons. The missive in his hand had been carried by an army pigeon though, and it practically burned at his palm with its urgency. "...I have a message from the north, from the campaign against Angmar."

"From Thranduil?" Anthelísse asked, instantly on alert. Setting aside the book, she shifted Legolas off her lap to the stone bench beside her.

"I...I cannot say." Galion said reluctantly. "It does not bear the royal seal, but it came from one of our birds."

Anthelísse paled but held out her hand for the scroll. That could only be a bad sign if Thranduil was not able to seal and dispatch his own correspondences. Galion caught the slight shake to the queen's hands as she undid the tie and opened the paper.

Her eyes flashed down the lines as Anthelísse read in silence. Little Legolas watched his mother anxiously, seemingly aware that something was afoot. Finally the elfing could bear the waiting no longer and piped up.

"What is it Naneth, is Ada alright?"

Anthelísse let out a long, shaky breath and lowered the parchment. The sudden change in her demeanour alarmed Legolas, and his lower lip unconsciously quivered.

"Naneth?"

"O my little leaf.." Anthelísse said, sinking to a knee and holding out her arms. The prince rushed into her embrace and clutched at her dress. "Your Ada is alive...but he has been hurt, very badly hurt."

"Hurt?!" Legolas cried, his blue eyes wide with alarm. Galion felt a lump in his own throat at the elfing's distress. "Can we go see him Naneth?"

Anthelísse held Legolas to her heart, then at arm's length. "I am afraid, Legolas, that you must stay here. It is a long way to Lake Evendim and the road is not gentle. The message says that the pass by way of Gundabad is clear though, so I will take a guard of warriors and go to help Ada with all haste."

"I shall alert the guards and organize and escort for you, Lady Anthelísse." Galion said, bowing.

"What about me Naneth, I want to go help Ada too!" Legolas insisted, clinging to his mother's sleeve.

"Legolas..." Anthelísse said, trying to smile. "Ada and I need you to stay here and take care of the Woodland Realm for us. Do you think you can do that, with Galion's help?" When the elfling began to protest, she hugged him again. "We will be back as soon as soon can be, and you and I will help Ada to heal and get well. I need to go and bring him back safely though. Can you be brave for me, my little leaf?"

Legolas swallowed hard, trying very hard to be a brave, grown-up ellon. "I will Naneth."

"Thank you ion-nin." Anthelísse squeezed him one more time, then kissed his forehead. "Ada and I love you very much, and I promise that we will both be back very soon."

Rushing toward the barracks in the lower levels of the palace, Galion's mind was roiling with the gravity of the situation. If he had only the faintest glimmer of the impending tragedy he was unwittingly playing a part in, he would have run screaming back to the gardens and clutched at the hem of Anthelísse's gown right along with Legolas, begging her not to go...


	31. Chapter 31 - As a Falling Star

**We come to it at last...the chapter we've all been anticipating/dreading. I have tried to write this story to sync as much as possible with the events of 'Starting Anew', my other LOTR fan-fiction. Rest assured, we still have at least three chapters left to us before this tale is over. **

**Enjoy (bring tissues lol...)! **

* * *

It was a dark and windy night, quickly growing darker. A thin crescent moon escaped the tendrils of cloud cover every once in a while, casting a wane glow over the ridged hilltops. A mountain stood silhouetted against the midnight sky, a jagged and forlorn peak known to most as Mount Gundabad. It was in the shadow of this mountain that small party of elves had made camp for the night.

Cloak drawn tightly about her shoulders and hood up, Anthelísse sat facing the embers of a low campfire. She knew her guards were standing alert in the darkness nearby. Still, this place had all her senses on edge. There was something about these lands, a subtle feeling that bespoke of evil. Or perhaps that was her worry for Thranduil speaking. Either way, Anthelísse knew she would find no peace in reverie tonight.

A rustle came from the edge of the firelight. Turning over on her sleeping pallet, Aislinn opened her indigo eyes. The loyal handmaiden had insisted on accompanying Anthelísse even all the way to Lake Evendim.

"Can you not rest, Anthelísse?" She asked, sitting up and shifting closer toward the fire. The shadows from the flames played across her face and cast dark hollows beneath her cheeks.

Anthelísse shook her head, drawing her cloak tighter against the chill of the November night air. "I will take no ease in this place. Were it not for the missive from the army, I could never believe that this road is the safest path open to us."

Scooting up beside the queen, Aislinn followed Anthelísse's gaze into the glowing embers. "This is the fastest road though, is it not? All the better for us to reach the king's side as soon as possible."

"Yes..." Anthelísse let out a long breath and touched her forehead to her knees. "Oh Aislinn, it pains me beyond bearing to know that Thranduil is suffering so far away. If I could run the rest of the way and be there by tomorrow's eve I would do it!" She turned her head to smile ruefully at her oldest friend and most faithful servant. "And I am missing Legolas."

Aislinn reached out to wrap an arm around Anthelísse's shoulders. The warmth of the two elf women helped to keep the chill of night at bay somewhat.

"I will wager every piece of jewelry I own that Legolas is even now being spoiled by Galion and Daeris with too many sweets from the kitchens. And I imagine he is playing with his dogs, and begging Daerchon for just one more story before bed."

Anthelísse managed a wane smile. She was not the carefree maiden Aislinn had accompanied from Nargothrond all those years ago. There was less of Finduilas's easy humour in her bearing and more of Gil-Galad's refined poise. Anthelísse was a now fully ripened into her full potential as a queen, as a wife and as a mother, Aislinn realized. The realization made her wonder just how much she herself had changed over the centuries. Unlike mortals, the Eldar wore their ages in their hearts rather than on their faces.

The tone of the crickets chirping changed suddenly, and Aislinn saw one of their guards stiffen. The elf reached for his knives...but never made it; the black dart in his neck prevented any such heroics. Another guard managed to cry out before being jumped by two dark figures from the brush.

"Yrch!" (Orcs!)

From all sides, orcs poured into the campsite. Their horrid squeals and growls shattered the night. It was too chaotic to be sure, but it looked like they outnumbered the elves by four to one at least.

"Lady Anthelísse, flee!" One of the guards cried just as he was stabbed from behind. The orc struck again and hooted with malicious glee as the elf crumpled forward onto the cold ground.

Hearts hammering in their ears, Anthelísse and Aislinn needed no further prompting. Leaving everything where it lay, they dashed away from the campfire to the spot where they had left their horses. The shrieking of orcs was all around, and they half expected to be attacked at any moment. The real horror awaited at the end of the trail though; the orcs had slaughtered the horses, leaving the poor animals to die slowly in the darkness.

"We must hide!" Aislinn cried, casting about in desperation for any thick patch of nature. Even the nocturnal orcs could not hope to find elves concealed in the wild.

They never got the chance though. Anthelísse turned to lead the way into a thicket...and was pulled up short by a gnarled hand grasping at the back of her long golden hair. Aislinn screamed as an orc burst out of the thicket in front of them, brandishing a notched sword wet with blood...

**OoO**

Many hundreds of leagues away, Thranduil lay lost in a drugged sleep, powerful doses of Siroth's herbs keeping him from awaking. His dreams were strange and winding, but one in particular ensnared his pain-wracked mind.

He was alone, wandering in some dark and endless place. Over and over he called out, but never was there an answer. Thranduil knew he ought to be somewhere, that someone needed him. No matter how he tried though, he could not free himself from this maze without walls.

"_Thranduil..." _

Now Thranduil could hear a voice, Anthelísse's voice. He couldn't be sure though; she sounded muffled and terribly far away. And so he wandered in his waking nightmare, calling out over and over for his beloved whom he could not find.

**OoO**

Anthelísse was running, running in the dark with the enemy hard on her heels. She could hear their horrible cackles all around, echoing off the stone walls and growing in volume. Were the orcs upon her, about to seize her again at any moment? Surely they could smell the terror rolling off her flesh in panicked waves.

The orcs had brought herself and Aislinn back to their lair inside Mount Gundabad, crudely bound with coarse rope. They hadn't killed the two elf women, but had abused them at every turn. Anthelísse's arms and shoulders ached with unnumbered bloody scratches they'd received from filthy orcish talons. That hadn't been the worst of it though. The orcs had leered at Anthelísse and Aislinn the whole way to the mountain, hissing promises of cruel torment that made their very souls shudder.

When Anthelísse had gotten the very first opportunity to escape, she had taken it. Their captors had gotten careless for a split second, leaving an arm's length of distance between themselves and their new playthings. Anthelísse had writhed her slim hands free of the rope, setting both herself and Aislinn free in an instant. The two of them had bolted away down the dark tunnels of the mountain, the enraged orcs close behind.

That had been ages ago it seemed. Anthelísse and Aislinn had gotten separated in the gloom, and Anthelísse had no way of knowing whether the handmaiden was still alive or dead. All she knew was that she was running out of strength, and by all measures seemed only to be getting more lost within the depths of Gundabad.

Then, a glimpse of light. Nearly sobbing with relief, Anthelísse dashed along the rocky ledge she found herself on. A pale shaft of light illuminated the dark ahead; an opening in the mountainside. To her right opened a gaping chasm of such pure shadow as to swallow even that feeble ray of light. If she could just reach the far side, Anthelísse promised herself that she would find some way to reach that opening to freedom.

She had not counted on the tunnel that opened behind the light though. The ray of hope Anthelísse raced toward was suddenly broken by a hoard of orcs barreling out toward her. Their red eyes gleamed evilly, promising her worst imaginable fears. Now she was trapped, with orcs both ahead and behind. There was no escape.

Or was there? The darkness of that great chasm yawned before Anthelísse, a maw of earth offering to swallow her whole. She did not want to die; she had so much to live for in Thranduil and Legolas. Their faces came to her then, there alone in the dark. She saw Thranduil as she had that first day in Emyn Duir when he had stood framed by morning sunlight as he waited for her. She saw Legolas smiling and laughing as he reached out his little arms for one more hug. Then she saw the orcs reaching for her...and closed her eyes.

One step...another...a leap...and she was free falling. Her hair and cloak fluttering behind her like the tail of a falling star, Anthelísse streaked down through the darkness and was gone. The light of the last elf-queen of Arda passed from the world, leaving in its wake a void the likes of which shall be lamented even unto the ending of all things.


	32. Chapter 32 - Deadly Silence

**Readers beware, things are getting dark in this chapter. Here we essentially see Thranduil reborn, and not in a good way. The betrayal at the heart of all this will finally come to light, and its repercussions will leave Thranduil in ruin for ages to come...**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

All was quiet. Thranduil's restless dreams gave way to a strange place, caught somewhere between waking and wandering. He felt disembodied, somehow removed from his physical self. Seeing without opening his eyes, Thranduil realized that he was in his field tent.

Moonlight shone through the fabric tent walls, turning the air an otherworldly hue of silver. The night was eerily still, without even a breath of wind to move the tent flaps. Everything felt like a dream, but yet looked real.

Tentatively, Thranduil looked around. He saw an inert figure lying on a camp bed and realized with a detached sort of interest that it was himself. It was a curious sensation, observing one's physical self as you would a separate being. Thranduil felt a confused moment of empathy and pity for the mass of bandages that swathed 'his' face.

_'What a poor, scarred creature_.' Thranduil thought.

Even recognizing his own, half-obscured features, he could not entirely reconcile that this body was in fact him. He wondered then if he were dead. A closer look though revealed the rise and fall of breathing from his body's chest.

Something brushed Thranduil's spirit then, a presence that filled this waking dream. Suddenly afraid, Thranduil slowly turned his ethereal gaze toward the entrance of the tent. And then he saw her.

It was Anthelísse, but not Anthelísse as Thranduil had ever known her. She stood silhouetted in the moonlight, the pale light shining both around and through her. Her sea-blue eyes were glossy with tears, and her face seemed oddly out-of-focus.

"_Anthelísse?"_ Thranduil asked, his voiceless words sounding hollow. He did not know what was happening, but seeing his beloved brought some small measure of relief. The urge to go to her and comfort her was overwhelming, but he could not move.

Then Anthelísse raised her arms toward Thranduil, and his heart dropped with horror. Her nimble, clever hands were dripping with blood. A crimson droplet fell from Anthelísse's fingertips, mingling with a crystal tear from her chin. She reached out for him, bleeding and weeping, a spectre of pure anguish.

"_No, Anthelísse!"_ Thranduil cried out. He was screaming, howling from the very core of his being. He thrashed like a person drowning, suddenly aware of his body around him again. His face burned like hellfire, and he could no longer see anything, including Anthelísse.

"Thranduil, hir-nin!" A voice cut through the veil of horror, very real and alarmed. "Send for Siroth, right now!"

There were hands grabbing at Thranduil now, trying to restrain him from possibly hurting himself. Thranduil thrashed and screamed, not so much from the formidable pain of his burns, but from the sheer agony of that bloodied vision. He screamed until his throat was raw, and even long after that. Many elves in the Woodland Realm whispered for years to come that the sound coming from the king's tent that night was of a heart being torn to pieces.

**OoO**

Come morning, Thranduil was fully conscious and quiet. Siroth had chalked up his fit from the night before as residual shock from his brush with the dragon. Gurithon watched Thranduil with troubled eyes, but Thranduil did not speak of what he had seen. In fact, he did not speak at all as Siroth checked his bandages and Gurithon delivered his report.

Angmar had indeed been forced into an easterly retreat by the armies Gondor and the folk of Lindon. Glorfindel had taken the Knights of the Valley to cut off Angmar's retreat, along with a small contingent under Thenniel's command. Gurithon apologized for not fulfilling his duty as second-in-command to lead the army alongside Glorfindel; he had not wanted to leave Thranduil's side. Thranduil listened impassively as Gurithon spoke, his one good eye flat and without expression.

About midday, the camp sentries announced that a lone elf had entered their sights. They brought her before Thranduil, despite Siroth's protests that the king ought to be abed resting.

The wretched elf who nearly collapsed on the floor of the tent was scarcely even recognizeable as the queen's favoured handmaiden. Aislinn's long black hair hung in tangled clumps around her face, and her slender form quivered as she spoke.

"We were attacked, our guards slaughtered in the night. The orcs...they took us prisoner and dragged us into the mountain. We thought the pass beside Mount Gundabad was supposed to be clear!" Aislinn wailed, tearing at her snarled hair. "The letter Anthelísse received told us that it was the best way, and to come with all haste!"

"What happened after you were captured?" Gurithon asked, pale and grave. The Silvan captain looked positively stricken to see the state Aislinn was in.

"We... Anthelísse slipped our bonds, and we ran." Aislinn continued, barely contained hysteria evident behind her words. "I tried to stay with her, I swear I did! It was so dark though, and the orcs were right behind us. We...we were separated! When I finally found an escape from the mountain I really did consider going back in to find Anthelísse. But...but...!" The distraught handmaiden hid her grimy face in her hands and sobbed.

"We must prepare a party to rescue the queen." Gurithon declared grimly. "Perhaps the orcs will try to ransom her?"

"Anthelísse is dead." Thranduil spoke for the first time since he had awoken. His voice was hoarse from screaming, but firm with certainty.

Aislinn let out a tiny shriek and collapsed, her whole frame shaking. Gurithon signalled to Siroth, who moved forward to see to the traumatized Noldo. Turning away from Aislinn's grief, Gurithon looked strangely at Thranduil.

"How can you be sure, Aran-nin?" Surely the queen..."

"Anthelísse is dead." Thranduil repeated, still staring straight ahead through his uncovered eye. "I know, I saw."

For a long moment, Gurithon watched Thranduil. Then his shoulders sagged. "What are we to do?" He asked, sounding defeated.

"...Who sent for her?"

Gurithon frowned. "I..." Then his expression darkened. "I explicitly said that the queen was not to be informed of your condition, owing to the danger on the roads. Glorfindel can confirm the truth of this."

"And yet someone wrote to call her here by the most dangerous of paths." Thranduil said. The low monotone in which he spoke unnerved Gurithon even more than Aislinn's wails. "Summon the Master of Birds here Gurithon, now."

Gurithon did as he was bid, although not without some misgivings. He was very concerned for Thranduil; the king had not reacted in the slightest to the news of his wife's death. For the first time ever, Gurithon feared what Thranduil might do.

The Master of Birds came to the tent wringing his hands, glancing about himself nervously. That something was terribly wrong was not lost on the tall, reedy elf. As Gurithon questioned him he continued to glance at Thranduil and his bandage-swathed head.

"I sent the message exactly as I received it Aran-nin." The army's courier declared. "The sentry who delivered it insisted that it was a matter of utmost urgency, to be sent on the leg of my fastest bird."

Gurithon glanced at Thranduil. The king continued to stare straight ahead, emotionless. "And who was this sentry, Master of Birds? Did they give you their name?"

"Oh no, no name." The Master of Birds shook his head. "They had the most unusual eyes though...mismatched green and brown!"

The silence that enveloped in the tent fell with the weight of a hammer-stroke. Even Aislinn ceased in her wild mourning to stare at the Master of Birds.

"Gurithon..." Thranduil whispered, low and hoarse. "Summon Tharnor to the hillside on the northern shore of Lake Evendim. I will meet him there...alone."

"Alone?" Gurithon asked, still reeling and alarmed. "Thranduil, I..."

"Gurithon. Obey me." Thranduil said. Even Siroth dared not voice his opposition hearing the steel in the king's tone.

"...As you command, my lord."


	33. Chapter 33 - The Footsteps of Fëanor

***Drum roll* Welcome to the climactic plot-twist, the fateful event that I have been planning throughout this entire tale. The events of this chapter may explain why it appeared that Thranduil never sailed from the Havens, even after Legolas left in the Fourth Age... **

**There is still more to come though; two chapters and an epilogue. Enjoy!**

* * *

Siroth made a half-hearted attempt to keep Thranduil in his tent, but the king exerted his authority with steely purpose. In the end the healer could only step back as Thranduil dressed himself and belted on his sword. His head throbbed within its shroud of gauze, but Thranduil's one good eye was grim and set as he prepared himself. Even his personal servants were not allowed to help as he pulled on his cloak and pinned it. Thranduil's silence forbade anyone from approaching him.

When Gurithon returned, he bowed his head and looked back up, not shying away from Thranduil's bloodshot gaze.

"I found Tharnor among the infantry...he awaits you by the lake, alone."

Thranduil nodded. He was halfway out the tent entryway when Gurithon moved slightly, blocking his path. Thranduil glared, but Gurithon leant in to speak in a low murmur.

"Please, mellon-nin...will you not let me go with you? When I have been by your side through all other evils we have faced in this world together?"

Thranduil did not answer. His glare barely softened, but he laid a hand on Gurithon's arm.

"No...this evil I must confront face-to-face, with no one to stand between us." His words rasped and grated painfully inside Thranduil's raw throat, making them sound ungentle. Gurithon understood though. He moved aside, leaving the way open to the world outside.

Thranduil could feel hundreds of eyes upon him as he walking through the camp. These were his people, and yet their gazes became a gauntlet that he had to endure. He knew what a sight he must look; half his head swaddled in white gauze, his long silky tresses cut short after having mostly been burned off. Thranduil did not look at anyone as he passed. Instead he kept his eye and his course set straight ahead; toward the shores of Lake Evendim.

When he reached the edge of the camp the stillness of the land came as a relief. The scars of battle could still be seen clearly upon the ground as he passed. Orcs, goblins, trolls, their black blood had stained the rocks for a full league around. Thranduil paused only slightly when he came upon the burial mounds the elves had raised over their fallen kin. Noldor, Sindar, Silvan, they all became equal in death. Here their bodies would become one with Arda, as their souls passed beyond to Mandos's keeping.

The realization that he would be unable to give the same peace to Anthelísse's body came crashing down upon Thranduil. Anthelísse had come to him one final time in dreams, of that he was certain. What had become of her physical form though? In what wretched place would her bones lie forevermore? The thought nearly brought Thranduil to his knees.

A cold wind blew from Lake Evendim, bringing with it the scent of still water. Thranduil remembered his purpose then, and found the strength to stay on his feet. Setting his jaw and clenching his fists, Thranduil carried on toward the lake. There he would find the one who had summoned Anthelísse to her death. There he would find the one who had betrayed them both and Legolas as well. However would he tell Legolas?

At first Thranduil did not see Tharnor. He climbed the hill on the edge of Lake Evendim, gritting his teeth as the chilly air attempted to probe the flesh beneath his bandages. He spied a lone figure standing at the water's edge then, their back to Thranduil as they stared out across that still expanse of water. Rage and grief barely contained, Thranduil approached the treacherous Silvan.

He was only a body length away when Tharnor drew in a deep breath. Thranduil stopped short, his own chest heaving with emotion.

"I will not beg forgiveness for my actions...but I did not mean for her to die."

Tharnor turned around, his green and brown eyes both resigned and defiant. The former Master of Coin wore the plain forest hues of a sentry. He had been stripped of his weapons though, Thranduil noted. Leave it to Gurithon to be thorough in all matters of security. The wind caught Tharnor's white-blonde hair and teased loose tendrils of it from his braid.

"You..." Thranduil had to stop and take a steadying breath before speaking. "You delivered Anthelísse to the orcs. Your missive sent her straight to them in their lair."

"Yes."

Thranduil didn't know what he had been expecting, but it was not Tharnor's calm admission of guilt. Seeing Tharnor's placid, unmarked face made Thranduil want to fly at him and maim him as he had been maimed. Only with great difficulty was he able to ask the question that had been burning him alive from the inside out.

"Why?"

Tharnor smirked then, ever so slightly. "You know why, Thranduil Oropherion. Once you came to me years before now, and demanded I share my thoughts on a matter that you in truth did not want to hear. You have never wanted to hear anyone's thoughts but your own, have you? If you had but thought of anyone but yourself and your own wants, you could have spared the Greenwood and even your Anthelísse from all this."

"You...sent her to her death, had the orcs do your dirty work, simply because Anthelísse was a Noldo?" Thranduil gritted out. The blood was rushing from his head so fast he feared he might faint. The memory of Anthelísse's bloodied, weeping specter came back to him though, and he kept himself upright through sheer will.

"As I said, I did not mean for her to die." Tharnor shook his head, looking for the first time just the tiniest bit regretful. "I thought the orcs would take her captive. Abuse her, yes...but in the end I believed they would hold her for ransom. The Noldor have passed from Arda, and I thought to 'prompt' her to go back where she and her people belong; Aman. Fëanor and his ilk never should have come here, the Noldor have wrought untold sorrows upon Middle Earth since they exiled themselves upon these shores." Tharnor looked away, staring back toward the ripples on Lake Evendim. "She was not supposed to die. She was supposed to choose to leave the Greenwood for the Havens of her own volition."

"...You would have seen her tormented, tortured to the point of breaking her spirit?" Thranduil hissed. He had known rage in battle, righteous anger towards the servants of evil. He had also known anger and frustration towards others. Never before had he felt hate for another. Hate, as pure and black as venom sang through his veins, chilling his blood. "You would have knowingly driven her to take ship, leaving our son, _your prince_, without a mother?" A sudden thought brought Thranduil to a jarring halt, and he stared at Tharnor in a new horror. "Would you wish harm on Legolas then, being of the Noldor blood as well?"

Tharnor frowned then, his lips thinning until they were white and pale. "You presume to suggest that I would do ill to an elfling? I acted on behalf of my people! The Woodland Realm cannot have the 'Lady of the Noldor' sitting in state upon the throne, her very presence was an insult. Your son..."

"Our son." Thranduil snarled. "Anthelísse's son. Grandson of Oropher and Nellas of Doriath _and_ nephew of Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor. Nothing you can say will ever make me not fear for Legolas's safety now...not so long as you live."

"Then I have nothing to say." Tharnor shrugged, turning his back on Thranduil. He stood with his boots just touching the lapping waters of the lake, staring far away at nothing.

"Face me, villain!" Thranduil roared. His hands moved seemingly of their own accord, gripping the hilt of his sword. The blade slid free of its sheath with a ringing note, causing Tharnor to turn.

"Are you a kin-slayer then, Thranduil?" Tharnor asked quietly. He made no move to defend himself, his arms still folded across his chest.

Thranduil clenched his sword so tightly that his fingers went cold. His heart thundered in his ears, and his face burned as is being flayed anew by the dragon. The tip of his sword trembled, hanging in the air between himself and Tharnor.

"Will you swear to me now, in the name of Eru Illuvatar himself, that you will leave the Woodland Realm forever? And will you swear that you shall never in word nor deed oppose my son should he ascend the throne? Swear to me now Tharnor, or I will swear my own oath. I swear by Anthelísse's spilled blood and Legolas's love that I will kill you."

Tharnor stared at the blade pointed at his chin. Then, drawing himself upright, he looked Thranduil straight in the eye.

"What I have done, I did for my homeland. Throw me in the dungeons for the rest of eternity if you must, Oropherion, but I will not leave the Greenwood."

"Then I will honor my oath!"

"You will try...!" Tharnor hissed. A quick as a striking snake, he tore an outer layer of cloth from the underarm of his leather jerkin, revealing a slim knife strapped beneath. Ripping the blade off his arm, Tharnor moved to stab at Thranduil's hand.

Thranduil was faster though. Blinded in one eye, maddened with pain and grief, he was still a trained warrior. Tharnor had been molded to the role of a courtier long before he ever laid hands on a weapon. Easily batting the stiletto blade aside, Thranduil forced Tharnor back on his heels.

"For Anthelísse." Thranduil growled. Seizing Tharnor by one shoulder, he ran the treacherous Silvan elf through the chest with his sword.

Tharnor jerked, in shock or surprise Thranduil did not know or care. His mismatched eyes widened as he stared down at the sword protruding from his breast. Blood ran down the blade to rain onto the surface of Lake Evendim.

_Drip. Drop._

Sickened, Thranduil withdrew his sword and released Tharnor. The dying elf wavered for a moment. Then, he slowly pitched over backward like a felled tree. Tharnor hit the waters of the lake with a splash. One brown eye and one green stared sightlessly up at the grey sky above, and Tharnor's pale hair fanned out in the bloody shallows around him.

Thranduil stared at the slain Eldar for almost an hour. The whisper of the wind and the lapping of the lake were the only sounds. Finally he roused himself and turned away. He saw the blood on his sword and was suddenly afraid.

Kin-slaying. There was no more fearsome word in the elvish vocabulary to describe one of their own. Fëanor and his seven sons had lived in infamy throughout history precisely for such crimes. The Valar themselves dealt with the punishment of kin-slayers; Fëanor himself would likely never leave the Halls of Mandos. No one in Arda knew exactly what had become of his sons, but whenever their names were mentioned it was always with a hushed tone.

_"Surely you wouldn't want to compare yourself to Fëanor Kin-Slayer? His is hardly a standard to follow."_

Anthelísse's words on the journey back from Imladris so many hundreds of years ago came to Thranduil. They echoed cruelly in his mind. What would Anthelísse say if she could see the blood upon Thranduil's sword?

_"But in the end, Fëanor's courage came to naught. He and his sons never reclaimed the Silmarils, and the Halls of Mandos shall be his prison even until such time as the Second Music of the Ainur."_

Thranduil remembered Iminyë, Anthelísse's wise and murdered handmaiden. Would that be his fate now too, to be imprisoned in the Halls of Mandos forever? To never be released into the Blessed Realm to reunite with Anthelísse, Nellas, Oropher and all others who had gone before him?

A chill raced down Thranduil's spine, and he felt doom fall upon his shoulders. The Havens, which had always been a place he thought of with fondness and veiled anticipation, suddenly seemed a terrifying thing. What would be his fate if he were to ever sail into the West now? Would the Valar pounce upon him the second his ship landed, spiriting him away to be forever jailed? Would he even be granted one last chance to see Anthelísse again?

All these thoughts turned Thranduil's heart to ice with grief and fear. Everything seemed grey. For the first time since learning of Anthelísse's death, Thranduil really felt the burden of everything he had lost. He realized then that the only thought that had been keeping him going was the hope of one day being reunited with Anthelísse and his loved ones. In one fell deed, Thranduil had stripped himself of his only hope.

When Thranduil returned to the camp, he thought now that elves shied away from his presence. He had wiped his sword and sheathed it, but some sense still seemed to tell everyone that he was unclean. By the time he reached his tent, he wanted nothing more from the world or anyone in it. All Thranduil wanted was to close his eyes and sleep for eternity. His heart was broken, and now his spirit.

Gurithon met Thranduil at the doorway. Lifting the tent flap, he stared long and hard. Thranduil said nothing, standing and waiting to be judged for the crime only he knew he had committed. For a moment, Gurithon looked to be on the verge of weeping. Then he stepped back and urged his king inside.


	34. Chapter 34 - Pretend to be Whole

**This chapter is written from little Legolas's perspective. I'm sorry in advance... ;-)**

**Finishing a fan-fiction on this scale always gives me an acute case of the feels, and I am so grateful to you the readers for coming with me on this journey. Fear not though; we still have two chapters left!**

**Enjoy!**

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Legolas was lonely. He had been lonely now for some time. The days passed in boredom and silence in the Halls of the Woodland Realm. Even the somber black wall hangings that covered all the colourful tapestries seemed to sigh mournfully. The people of the Greenwood were in mourning, none more so than the descendants of Oropher.

Most nights Legolas was unable to lull himself into a proper reverie. Without his Naneth to sing to him or Ada to read to him, there was nothing to distract him from his childish sorrow. Instead he lay awake, either sniffling quietly or petting his elfhounds. Naneth hadn't let the two dogs sleep on the bed with Legolas...but now their warm, furry presences were his only solace.

It had been three months since Ada had come home. He had not been the same warm, loving Ada who had left though. Thranduil seemed now a distant, almost scary figure. When Legolas had dissolved into sobbing wails at the news of his mother's death, Thranduil's embrace was wooden, like a puppet on strings. When Thranduil looked at his son, he did so without really seeing. His eye remained empty and far-seeing. The heavy bandages that covered the rest of Thranduil's face did nothing to reassure the grieving elfling.

That was back when Thranduil was still at all visible to others. With each passing day, the king withdrew further and further into himself. He rarely left his private quarters anymore. Thranduil spoke to no one, not even Legolas. Daeris kept on sending the finest dishes the kitchens could prepare in an effort to tempt the king into eating. By all reports though Thranduil was not eating but the very tiniest amounts required to continue living. The only person who saw the king with any regularity was Siroth, who would only say that Thranduil's wounds were not healing well.

Legolas for his part missed both his Naneth and Ada every day. He missed Ada in the morning when he was not there to greet him at the breakfast table. He missed Naneth in the evening when she was not there to sing to him and tuck him into bed. Even Aislinn was gone now, departed for the Havens two weeks ago. She had been Naneth's friend and Legolas's too, and the elfling grieved Aislinn's absence as well as his Ada and Naneth's.

These days Gurithon and Galion were the only ones who Legolas saw with any regularity, besides Daerchon every day for his lessons. Time spent in the library learning his letters were poor comfort to the bereaved prince though. Legolas's only happy moments lately were in the forest archery range. Gurithon had given up on trying to draw Thranduil from his solitude. A few days ago the Captain of the Guard had fair near broken down the door to Thranduil's apartments. Only a cry from inside had called Gurithon off; a cry that sounded more like a wounded animal than an elf.

Gurithon was a skilled teacher when it came to the bow and arrows. With so many empty hours to fill, Legolas likewise was a diligent pupil. The elfling practiced until the bowstring hurt his fingertips, but still he would come to the archery range again the next day. Gurithon had trained many archers in his long tenure as Captain of the Guard. Even so, he had to admit that Legolas showed enormous promise. The prince was only half Gurithon's height, but he was already striking the centre of the target more often than not at a distance of twelve paces.

"Lift your elbow, Legolas." Gurithon said patiently. In truth he had little to comment on; Legolas had uncommonly good form for a child, even a child of elf-kind.

Drawing in a deep breath, Legolas relaxed and let his shoulders relax. He sighted along the arrow shaft toward the target. Then he remembered Gurithon's advice from earlier about checking the wind. A slight gust stirred his golden-blonde hair; Erchelil had once commented that he had Gondolin hair. Legolas didn't quite know what that meant, but he knew that Naneth had looked strangely uncomfortable at the time.

With the faint breeze in mind, Legolas adjusted his arrowhead left just a tiny bit. It was a cool breeze, laden with the first hints of spring. The forest may be still and quiet under a blanket of snow at the moment, but soon the thaw would begin. Then Legolas would be able to play outside more often, and escape the oppressive melancholy of the Halls of the Woodland Realm.

After one more moment Legolas let out the breath he had been holding. His fingers slid off the bowstring, and the arrow sped past his cheek. The first time Legolas had tried shooting with the hard-fletched arrows from the range, he had cut his cheek by holding the flight too high next to his face. That had been almost ten years ago though. This time, just like the hundreds of times before, the arrow flew straight and true. With a 'thunk' it struck the target; just a finger's width from the yellow Bulls-eye.

"Well done." Gurithon approached from where he had been leaning against a nearby oak tree. The pale winter sun highlighted the creases of strain at the corners of the Silvan's elf's eyes when he smiled though.

Lowering the bow, Legolas looked up at his teacher. "Gurithon...when will Ada get better?" A lump came into his throat, and he swallowed hard. "I heard Siroth tell Maechenel that Ada is 'looking to follow the queen'. What did he mean by that?"

Gurithon stopped short, looking alarmed. Then, his shoulders sagged, and he knelt in front of Legolas. Taking one of the elfling's hands in his, Gurithon spoke gravely.

"Your father...your father is very ill, Legolas, very ill indeed."

"Ill?" Legolas looked confused, his small face scrunching in a frown. "But I thought he was hurt by a dragon. And don't only mortals get sick?"

Gurithon shook his head. His green eyes grew glossy, shining in the winter light. "Not ill in the sense of mortal sickness, Little Leaf. Your Ada's body is not sick...his spirit is. You miss your Naneth...yes?" Gurithon asked softly.

A tear welled up in Legolas's eyes, which he rubbed away with a sniffle. In a quivering voice he answered "Yes..."

"Your Ada misses your Naneth too. Your parents loved each other very much, and they were also each other's only family in this world, besides you of course. Legolas, sometimes..." Gurithon had to pause for a moment before continuing. "...Sometimes, when an elf is heartbroken, something happens to them that is known among our people as 'fading'."

"I don't understand, Ada's heart is broken?" Legolas asked tearfully. All the fun had gone out of the day's archery lesson.

Gurithon nodded. "In a sense, yes. And sometimes, our people can die from such a heartbreak."

"Die!?" Legolas cried.

When Gurithon did not answer, Legolas was besides himself. With a cry, he dropped his bow and ran away toward the main gates. Gurithon called after him, but Legolas did not even look back.

Now alone in the archery range, Gurithon did not rise to his feet. Instead he raised his face to the snow-laden arms of the forest. A snowflake fell onto his cheek, where it was caught and carried by a single tear.

Then warm arms encircled Gurithon's neck. Even without the stray lock of red hair falling past his gaze, Gurithon would have recognized that scent of cinnamon and bowstring oil anywhere.

"He needed to know." Thenniel said, speaking of the now-gone prince.

Leaning back into his love's strong embrace, Gurithon closed his eyes. They stayed like that for a long while, two children of the forest drawing support from one another. The snow fell like a mantle upon their heads and shoulders, but together Gurithon and Thenniel were warm.

Inside the Halls of the Woodland Realm, Legolas ran without stopping, nearly blinded by tears. He dodge the guards, servants and other elves who called after him at every turn. Little legs pumping, he ran all the way to the doors of his father's private quarters.

"Ada...Adaaaaa!" Legolas cried, beating on the ornately carved doors with small fists. When there was no answer, Legolas did something he had always been told was very bad manners; entered his parents' closed quarters without being invited in.

He found his Ada beside the pool of still water that his Naneth had always loved. It's surface reflected dancing ribbons of light on the chamber wall, and on the ruined face of the broken elf who sat beside it. Thranduil was a ruin of his former self.

The king's long, silky tresses were wild, unkept, uncombed. His hands, always so graceful and expressive, lay still and limp in Thranduil's lap. Seeing his father so listless was not all that brought Legolas up short though. Siroth had removed the bandages from Thranduil's face. This was the first time Legolas had ever seen the full extent of Thranduil's injuries from the dragon's fiery breath. His Ada looked a fearsome, scarred, wretched thing.

Thranduil did not look up at Legolas's entrance, or even stir. It was as if the king was completely unaware of his surroundings. His one good eye stared endlessly at the surface of the water, unblinking and unseeing.

"Ada?" Legolas asked timidly. Thranduil did not move. He was like one dead, a statue that somehow still drew breath.

Remembering Gurithon's words, Legolas decided he was more afraid of his Ada dying than he was of Thranduil himself. Rushing forward, the elfling threw himself across his father's knees. They felt bony and cold through Thranduil's robes. Close up Legolas realized he could see all the blue veins on the backs of Thranduil's hands, spidery beneath the translucent skin.

"Ada, please don't die!" Legolas sobbed. "Please stay here, don't leave me alone! Please stay Ada, please stay!"

Legolas shuddered and cried, laying his head on his father's lap. When he was even smaller and had been afraid of the shadows at night, Thranduil would stroke his hair while Naneth sang to him. It had been their nightly ritual, to drive away childish fears of the darkness.

Then, something touched Legolas's head. The fingers were cold and bony, like the talons of a bird. It took Legolas a moment to recognize that the fingers belonged to his Ada. Suddenly alert, suddenly hopeful, Legolas raised his tear stained face.

Thranduil's one sky blue eye was in focus, looking at Legolas and truly seeing for the first time in months. The king's face was sunken, hollow, lending his gaze an almost feverish glow. His chapped lips moved, but the words were clearly audible.

"For you, my son...I will pretend to be whole. For you."

Then a shiver ran through Thranduil, like a statue shaking itself to life. He stood, dislodging Legolas from where he had been huddled. The elfling looked up at his father with wide eyes, waiting.

Thranduil closed his eye. He drew in a deep breath...and something strange happened. His face seemed to waver, like a reflection upon the surface of a pond. The terrible turns, the blind eye, they shimmered and were suddenly sealed over. No one knew how Thranduil could have done such a thing, but by some measure of magic innate to the Firstborn Children of Eru, Thranduil did indeed pretend to be whole. His disfiguring burns concealed themselves beneath an illusion; a mirage of beauty masking the damage beneath. The king of the Woodland Realm was once again fair, but there was a coldness to his face.

From that day on, Thranduil was an elf greatly changed. No more did his hands dance with animation as he spoke, and no more did his smiles reach his eyes. His voice, once warm and mellow took on a chill, aloof edge. If on a rare occasion the king did laugh, it was never a genuine show a mirth, but a veiled mockery of the act.

Some might have claimed that there was no love in Thranduil's heart after that day. They would be wrong though. Echoes of love did indeed remain, sealed away in a frozen corner of Thranduil's heart. For the sake of his son, Thranduil kept himself alive and preserved his heart by encasing it in a solid block of ice.

Legolas never complained though. Even in the years to come when he might have been feeling disregarded or alone, Legolas never regretted what Thranduil had become. His father was all that he had asked for, and he would accept him in whatever form he assumed. Over time Legolas grew and became a serious, dutiful prince. He carried with him though the memories of those golden years when his family had truly been one and whole.

Still, the days of joy in the Woodland Realm appeared for a time to have come to an end. Winter fell upon the halls of King Thranduil, even as the snows began to melt outside in the forest.


	35. Chapter 35 - Farewell, Mellon-nin

**Hello everyone, and welcome to the last (formal) chapter of 'The Last Elf Queen of Arda'. **

**Many of you will finally get what you've been waiting for; Tauriel's backstory! That being said, bring tissues; I cried while writing. _ **

**Enjoy!**

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Thranduil had little good to say about mortals these days. One thing he would forever grudgingly be indebted to them for however was that first gift of his favorite indulgence. Most all of the Woodland Realm's external trade was conducted with Elrond and Imladris these days. There still persisted one single open account with the human kingdom of Dale to the East though; for shipments of Dorwinion wine from the arbors of the south. Thranduil had sent Daeris to negotiate that contract in his stead, but as soon as he had heard that the River Running was open to southern boats from Gondor he had acted swiftly. It may only be one account, but the ledgers related to it saw plenty of transactions. The king of the Woodland Realm had his vice, and he was quite content with it thank you very much.

"Galion, send for a cask of Dorwinion from the wine cellars." Thranduil said, sitting back on the throne and draping one long leg over the other. The day could not officially start winding down until he had a full goblet in hand. King he may be, but by Thranduil's reckoning that entitled him to a little indulgence after dealing with the matters of the realm for hours on end.

"Very good Aran-nin." Galion bowed and signalled for a servant. The steward knew the inner workings of the royal household better than anyone. Thranduil had never said as much aloud, but Galion knew very well how indispensable he was. That occasionally permitted him to sneak in a few teasing remarks that no one else could have gotten away with. With a wry half-smile, Galion added "Concluding things early today, I gather?"

Thranduil casually dandled one foot in the air. "Unless Maechenel wishes to come back a third time to whine about the details of Mereth Nuin Giliath, then yes."

As is summoned by Thranduil's remark, a page rushed down the causeway toward the throne. Galion could practically hear the king's eyes rolling all the way from where he stood on the audience platform. He hoped the Dorwinion would not be too long in coming. As the page approached though, the grim set of his face made both Thranduil and Galion take pause.

"Aran-nin." The elf bowed quickly. "There's been a report to the front gate...of an attack in the forest. Baraniel requests your presence at the causeway."

"Why can she not walk the hundred steps from there to here herself, and deliver her report to the throne? Have Baraniel's feet become too sore from standing on guard duty?" Thranduil asked drolly.

The page did not back down though. "Begging your pardon my lord, but Baraniel said you would want to come and here the scout's words yourself...She also called for your horse to be brought to the gate."

Galion frowned. That was both highly presumptive and highly unorthodox for Baraniel to have done. Something was afoot.

Thranduil seemed to think so too. Rather than chide the page any further, he gave a curt nod and arose from the throne. His long silvery robes trailing behind him, Thranduil set aside his scepter and set course for the front gates along the wending causeways of the Woodland Realm. Curious, Galion decided to stealthily fall in behind the king.

Sure enough, Baraniel was waiting at the front gate amongst a cluster of rather anxious looking guards. There was also a scout, his forest leathers still stained from fast travel. Upon seeing the king all bowed their heads.

"I apologize for calling you here King Thranduil." Baraniel said. She looked grim. "I would not have done so if it were not of the utmost importance."

"What is it, Baraniel?" Thranduil asked sharply, ignoring her apology. He was not happy with the growing cloud of fear in the air. It was plain in the eyes of the others, pinching their brows and thinning their lips.

"Tanwë, give the king your report." Baraniel turned to the scout.

Looking at Thranduil with wide eyes, the scout Tanwë spoke softly at first. He was very young, barely a century older than Legolas. The thought of his son joining the patrols next year when he came of age nearly distracted Thranduil for a moment. Mentally shaking himself, Thranduil forced his attention back to the present instead.

"Orcs crossed our southern borders again today, Aran-nin. They've been quite aggressive as of late with the high summer months. As you know, some of our folk have been shunning life inside the Halls of the Woodland Realm in favor of living openly in the forest. The orcs attacked one such small settlement, a group of five families living together half a league south of here. I alerted the first patrol I saw and sent them to intercept the orcs...then came straight here as fast as I could to raise the alarm."

"Half a league south?" Thranduil asked sharply. When the scout confirmed as much, he glanced at Baraniel and saw confirmation there. They knew very well who lived in the settlement Tanwë spoke of; the elf in question had taken a leave of duty just two days ago to spend time with his family.

Thranduil drew in a deep, slow breath. The other elves could practically see the mask of icy calm slide into place. "Were there any survivors once the patrol moved in to assist?"

"I...I do not know Aran-nin. I was already on my way here by that time."

Without another word, Thranduil gestured for the groom that was leading his horse. No one even thought for a moment to suggest the king not go. Everyone knew far better.

The ride along the forest paths was brief, even more so because of the pace Thranduil set. He did not speak, but the hunched set of his shoulders as he led spoke volumes. Anyone could see that the king was afraid. When they came thundering into the clearing on swift hooves, a scene of woeful brutality awaited them.

The patrol had come to the settlement's aide with all haste, but it had not been fast enough. Orcs lay dead all around, littering the forest floor with their corpses. Their black blood mingled with the blood of their victims; the five families who had chosen to live beneath the eves of the Greenwood rather than beneath the stone ceilings of the Woodland Realm. They knew what a terrible risk they had been taking, but the pull of the forest had been too strong.

Members of the patrol stood in silence at intervals around the clearing. They looked like mournful sentinels, their quivers empty and their blades stained with black. When Thranduil dismounted, their eyes followed him. Thranduil needed no one to show him why he had been called here...Gurithon was waiting for him.

The proud Silvan Captain of the Guard, Thranduil's oldest and now only remaining friend lay with his back against a tall oak tree. He had been propped up and offered whatever care the would-be-rescuers from the patrol could provide. As Thranduil approached Gurithon though, his gaze flickered down to the blood-soaked bandages wrapping his torso. When he met Gurithon's calm, steadfast eyes again, they understood perfectly; it was over.

"I knew you would come...Sapling..." Gurithon said softly as Thranduil knelt to one knee beside him. He offered a weak smile, betraying that his mouth was filled with blood. Gurithon was dying.

"...Why did you not make Thenniel listen to me?" Thranduil asked, his voice quiet and strangled. "I told her, told you both that it was too dangerous to live alone out here."

Gurithon smiled, but then coughed slightly, painting his pale lips red. "Since when...has anyone ever been able to make...Thenniel do anything? Besides...this was our choice, both of ours. We wanted our child to see the stars every night."

The sound of soft sniffles reached Thranduil, and he looked away from Gurithon toward their source. Gurithon followed Thranduil's gaze and smiled again. Slowly, painfully, he lifted his arm to the small elfling who clung to one of the patrol member's legs.

She was a tiny thing, Silvan to the very core. The bright red hair that floated about the elfling's shoulders was a perfect echo of her mother's well-known tresses. The eyes were Gurithon's though, without a doubt. With a choked sob the elfling rushed forward and flung herself into her father's one-armed embrace. She was bloodied, but the blood did not appear to belong to her.

"Thranduil, this is our daughter. We named her Tauriel. The very image of her mother, is she not?" Gurithon's voice sounded stronger when he spoke now, and he stroked the weeping elfling's head. "Hush now iel-nin (my daughter). We named you 'Daughter of the Forest', and so you will never be without a parent. The forest will always be your home, and we will always be with you whenever you walk beneath its' eves."

"Don't go Ada..." Tauriel let out a hiccupping sob. Her tiny fists clutched at Gurithon's blood-stained cloak.

Hearing Gurithon's daughter crying, Thranduil was suddenly, abruptly transported back to the day when Legolas had brought him back from the very brink of fading. Legolas too had wept and begged for his father not to leave him. A lump rose to Thranduil's throat, and his eyes stung. Deep within its frozen prison, his heart gave a painful, shuddering throb. Emotions Thranduil had buried for years threatened to break free and drown him in an instant.

"Thranduil."

Gurithon's voice jolted Thranduil, and he once again saw clearly his old friend's face. Gurithon's eyes were dim, shaded. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, and he leaned back more heavily against the trunk of the tree.

"Yes...mellon?"

"Thenniel...she is gone. She...ah, there is no sense in telling of it...my beloved is dead. I saw her die, and now I see her with my darkening eyes...waiting for me." Gurithon drew in a labored breath. The end was fast approaching. "Will you watch over our child? I would entrust you with Tauriel, and ask that you care for her in our stead...Please, mellon-nin?"

Struggling to hold himself together, to keep the tattered pieces of his soul from dissolving, Thranduil looked once again at Tauriel. He and Anthelísse had once spoken with hope of giving Legolas a brother or sister. Legolas was fast approaching maturity, well beyond the days of wanting or needing a playmate. Still, some tiny fragment of Thranduil's heart bled at the tears in Tauriel's large green eyes. There was no question in his mind, not when it came to this.

"Yes. Yes of course I will, Gurithon." Thranduil whispered. "I swear it, your daughter shall want for nothing. I will see to it that she is as well cared for, educated and trained and Legolas ever was."

Gurithon smiled, even though his eyes no longer seemed to see what was before him. "Then I am content..." He murmured. Tauriel curled up in the crook of his arm, still whimpering and crying for her Ada not to leave her.

"I will never forget you, nor all the times you stood between me and death, old friend." Thranduil said softly.

Suddenly, a final burst of life seemed to animate Gurithon's failing body. His eyes opened, and he drew in a sharp breath.

"There...is one thing...I must ask...Sapling." Gurithon grated out, his words barely audible. Thranduil had to lean in close even to hear. The coppery scent of blood was all around, mingling with the rich smells of moss, bark and forest life. "That day...after Anthelísse...Tharnor...did you...?"

_Did you kill him?_

Thranduil drew in a sharp breath, momentarily afraid. He rocked back on his heel and cast about for words. Seeing the calm, unafraid light in Gurithon's gaze though, Thranduil decided just once to share the burden he carried.

"Yes."

Rather than look shocked or disappointed, Gurithon's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. Then his face really did lift into a fierce grin, a warrior's grin.

"...Good."

Then, holding his daughter with one hand and his bow with the other, the Captain of the Guard of the Woodland Realm died. When he passed though, Gurithon did so with a fierce, proud smile on his face. He was a Silvan elf, a warrior of the Greenwood who lived and died to defend his people. Gurithon died with his beloved awaiting him, his child secure in her future and his conscience clear. It was the sort of death that Thranduil would have given anything for.

Thranduil knelt before the body of his friend for a long time. Then, something moved in the forest behind the clearing. With weary eyes Thranduil looked up. What he saw was an echo from what felt like another life, a memory in flesh and blood.

A stag stood watching, its antlers nearly scraping the branches overhead. It was an animal so enormous and regal, it had no equal. Thranduil was certain now that there was no chance in these forest meetings. Bowing his chin, he acknowledged an equal. Perhaps Gurithon had not been his last and only friend.

After a moment the stag echoed the gesture, its rack scraping the branches and rustling the leaves. Then it turned and stepped away into the Greenwood. Thranduil had a feeling they would be meeting again very soon.

Slowly rising to his feet, Thranduil let out a long breath. He had shared the knowledge of what he had done with another, and had not been judged. Gurithon was gone, but for some reason Thranduil felt a strange sense of numbness. It was not exactly peace, but it was not the agony of grief either. There was someone who was feeling that agony though. Turning his attention to Gurithon's weeping daughter, Thranduil spoke gently to the elfling.

"Come, Tauriel. Your father and mother have asked me to watch over you, and I will. We should not linger in this place."

The elfling looked up, tears still running down her little face. She looked Thranduil straight in the eye though without fear, a boldness that Thenniel would have been proud of. Then, chin firm, Tauriel got up and took Thranduil's offered hand.

The other elves moved in to take up the bodies of their kin and bear them to their places of burial. Thranduil did not stay to watch though. The king lifted his new charge up onto his horse's back and then mounted behind her. Then, backs straight and wills strong, Thranduil and Tauriel rode away.


	36. Epilogue

**And so we come to it at last; the final chapter/epilogue of 'The Last Elf Queen'. It has been an absolute pleasure to write this tale for you, on par to me with the journey we took in 'Starting Anew'. **

**I have heard many of you asking if I will write any more LOTR/Hobbit fan-fiction. That is up to you! **

**I will post a poll on my Facebook page (GreenScholar Tales), or you can comment in a review here with story requests. **

**Until then, merry meet and merry part, and merry meet again! ;-) **

* * *

It had been more than three thousand years since the Battle of the Last Alliance. More than a century since the final fall of Sauron and the destruction of the One Ring. The Greenwood was a place of peace now, but also of silence. The Sindarin folk of the Woodland Realm had all departed from the Havens following the end of the War of the Ring, at long last heeding the call of the Valar to the shores of Aman. All that is, save two.

Thranduil stood upon the threshold of his halls, gazing out upon the green light of the forest. The years had changed him much. No longer was he the cold, anguished creature that had endured the queen's death. Neither though was Thranduil the young, earnest 'Sapling' who had idolized Oropher and worshipped Anthelísse. Thranduil was still fair of face and strong of body…but he was old. The long years of his life felt all the longer looking back upon them for all the immense joy, love and sorrow that they had held.

A leaf fell from a tree above the river causeway, fluttering down to settle on Thranduil's shoulder. The first fallen leaf of autumn. Soon the Greenwood would burn brightly with hues of red, gold and orange, all to come showering down over the forest floor. Thranduil would be there to witness the turning of seasons in the Woodland Realm, as he had been for nigh on six thousand years now. Legolas would not.

With soft footsteps, Legolas came to stand at his father's shoulder. His horse awaited, a few small saddlebags packed and ready. The faithful creature was ready…ready to carry Legolas to the western shores of Middle-Earth. King Aragorn of Gondor was dead, and now Legolas intended to sail to the Undying Lands.

"Will you not come with me, Ada?" Legolas asked, laying a hand on Thranduil's shoulder. The leaf brushed off his dark grey robes and fell silently to the ground between them.

"No…I cannot." Thranduil said. He turned and beheld his son, taking in Legolas's face as if he would memorize every last detail. "I am needed here."

It was a thin excuse, one that Thranduil had stubbornly stuck to no matter how Legolas pressed him. The only person whom had ever known of Thranduil's darkest secret was Gurithon. The only elves remaining in the Greenwood now were Silvans, and they had little need of a king to govern them. The people of the Woodland Realm had essentially reverted back to their old habits and ways from the days before Oropher had come from Doriath. Thranduil for the most part only acted as king in a symbolic manner during seasonal gatherings.

"You are certain about the dwarf?" Thranduil asked, more resigned than teasing. He and Legolas had fought many battles over the years regarding his deep friendship with Gimli, son of Gloin. In the end the bonds forged between the two during the War of the Ring stood fast, and Thranduil had had to admit defeat. Still he wondered at his son's fantastical notion of bringing a dwarf to the Blessed Realm. The thought of a naugrim upon those shores where he could not go admittedly stung Thranduil a bit.

"I am." Legolas said.

Thranduil smiled slightly, shaking his head. "You are just like your mother when you set your mind to a course of action, ion-nin. She could never be swayed from what she believed was the right thing to do either."

They had spoken much and often of Anthelísse in the years since the War of the Ring. The memories had been sharp-edged and painful at first, but the more Thranduil recalled Anthelísse the more the grief softened. He had told Legolas all he could remember of their meeting after the Last Alliance, their courtship in Emyn Duir, and even of her final days. Legolas had listened in rapt attention to Thranduil's every word, and more than once the two of them had wept bittersweet tears together. It was a time of great healing for both father and son.

"Will we ever meet again?" Legolas asked, staring long and searchingly at Thranduil. He had Anthelísse's eyes, Thranduil noticed with pride for the thousandth time. Then again Legolas had always had the best of both his parents.

"…Not upon these shores." Thranduil tried not to outright lie. In truth he did not know. The fear of punishment at the hands of the Valar for his slaying of Tharnor still haunted his waking hours.

Mercifully though, Thranduil's dreams were free. Reverie came to him frequently and far more deeply than it ever had these days. He would often wander strange paths, some place between sleep and memory. There Thranduil would meet Oropher, Nellas, Gurithon…and Anthelísse. Whether his dreams held any actual fragments of the spirits of his loved ones Thranduil could not say. All he knew was that he never quite felt alone anymore.

Looking away, Legolas gazed long and lovingly at the Greenwood. Then he sighed. "What should I tell the others then? What should I tell Naneth?"

Thranduil paused. Had Gurithon shared with his family the truth of his kin-slaying? If so, then there was nothing really that he could say to explain himself.

"Tell your mother and the others…tell them that I always have and always will love them, no matter how much distance or time parts us." Thranduil reached out for Legolas's hand. "And I love you, my son. Beyond the ends of this earth and all the ages of eternity, I love you forever."

"Ada..." Legolas fell into Thranduil's embrace. The two of them stood holding one another close for a very long time. "I love you Ada, truly I do."

"Then go, my son." Thranduil forced himself to release Legolas and take a step back toward the halls. "Go with all my love and all my blessings, and may the wind fill your sails all the way from here to the shores of Aman!"

Turning away from his father and his homeland, Legolas mounted his horse. Just as he set out upon the forest road though, he turned in his saddle and paused. Thranduil raised a hand in farewell, and Legolas did the same. Then the prince of the Woodland Realm urged his horse on and galloped away into the forest.

A flash of movement and red hair caught Thranduil's eye from the trees; Tauriel would see her oldest friend safely to the borders of the forest. They had their own private farewell to say. Thranduil smiled softly, his heart breaking at the seams with love and loss.

"I am sending our little leaf to you, Anthelísse." Thranduil whispered. "To you I entrust his keeping."

And then, his long robes trailing behind him, the king of the Woodland Realm returned to his throne. None know whether Thranduil ever did take ship from Middle-Earth to the Blessed Realm, for there are no records written of his departure. Did Thranduil ever muster the courage to face the Valar and account for his deed, in the hope of one day being reunited with his loved ones? Or did he remain, a silent guardian of ancient love and memory? The elves of the Greenwood grew ever stranger and wilder as the years passed, and their home became a place of great mystery. What became of the king, none can say. If Thranduil still dwells within his woodland halls or no, the forest certainly is not telling.


	37. New Story?

Greetings!

It has been so long since last I posted on FanFiction! I often look back over 'Starting Anew' and 'The Last Elf-Queen of Arda', two of the finest pieces of writing I feel I have ever done. Until recently though, I didn't have any inspiration for new LOTR fan-fictions.

That changed tonight. :-)

My roommate pitched a story to me, and I liked the sound of it so much that I just may write it. It would be a tale of the Fourth Age, concerning the folk of Gondor, Rohan and Ithilien after The Return of the King. Chief characters would be Aragorn, Arwen, Legolas, Gimli, Eomer, Eowyn, Faramir, Lothíriel, Aragorn and Arwen's children Eldarion and his sisters, Eomer and Lothíriel's son Elfwine, Faramir and Eowyn's son Elboron, and a host of OCs.

My question to you the readers is this; would you be interested?

(And to pre-emptively answer any questions on the subject...sorry, I just have no inspiration to write the Lórien fanfic. Can't do it. Nope. XD )

~ GreenScholar


	38. Seeds of the White Tree

I have officially begun a new LOTR saga; '**Seeds of the White Tree**'

You can find it posted here on FanFiction under my account, and you can also follow me on Facebook (GreenScholar Tales) for more updates.


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